


here we are millionaires

by mellyflori



Series: here we are millionaires [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:30:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 116,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2000334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They will sleep, then. Limbs wrapped tight some nights, only touching at their fingers on others. When they wake Porthos will make coffee and Aramis will grumble until his second cup and neither of them will say what is always on their minds; that they are lucky, lucky, lucky.</p><p>But this is not that story. Not yet. This is the story of everything that comes before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fifteen - Paris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ceeturnalia (traveller)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Une histoire de bleu](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1837783) by [ceeturnalia (traveller)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/ceeturnalia). 



> This fits in the universe of ceeturnalia's gorgeous Un Histoire de Bleu. You don't have to read that to read this, but good lord why would you not? My thanks to her for her tireless support, filthy mind, and willingness to do horrible things to fictional people.
> 
> Apologies in advance for any liberties I've taken with the geography, layout, or relative elevations of the city of Paris. There's only so much I can get from Google Maps street view and it's been 25 years since I was there. Suspend some disbelief and come along for the ride. 
> 
> Title and epigraph from Carol Ann Duffy's [Hour](http://poetryconnections.wordpress.com/hour-by-carol-ann-duffy/)

_We find an hour together, spend it not on flowers_  
 _or wine, but the whole of the summer sky and a grass ditch._

 

They each have a thing they love best, of course.

Aramis loves when he is laid out on the bed, hands gripping the rungs of the headboard and kept in place only by the force of his promise not to move them. He loves when Porthos slides one of his legs up, pushing his knee back into his chest, and looks up with a leering smirk from between Aramis’ thighs.

He loves the extended, fucking _unending,_ worship of his ass with Porthos’ tongue that comes after and leaves him tender and a little sore and utterly pliant as Porthos fucks him. Sometimes Porthos will wrap his hand around Aramis’ cock and squeeze just a little and Aramis will come so hard there are constellations behind his eyelids. Sometimes he just waits for the sensation to build up until it’s a constant roar and he doesn’t even realize he’s come, untouched, until he feels it cooling on his belly as it dries.

Porthos loves to start an evening with dinner and wine and stories. He loves to watch Aramis’ face light up when all eyes are on him. He loves how passion makes his lover glow from within. He likes to kiss Aramis all the way up the stairs to his flat, grabbing Aramis’ ass as he fumbles with the keys in the lock. But the thing Porthos loves most is telling Aramis all the things he wished he could have been doing all through dinner and wine and stories. 

“I though about just dropping to my knees and taking your cock in my mouth while you were talking to the waiter. I’d just have sucked you in soft and felt you grow all fat and hard in my mouth. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”  Aramis would, he really would.

On his favorite nights Porthos pushes Aramis to the couch and strips him of his trousers to find that Aramis is already hard. “I’d complain about you getting started without me but… “ And then he guides Aramis’ hand to where his ass is stretched wide around their favorite plug. He is slick with lube and his heartbeat is pulsing in the rim of his hole. He loves it when Aramis growls and says how glad he is that he didn’t know this sooner but now that he does know…  And then the plug is tugged out and dropped to the floor and Aramis buries himself in one stroke and they both groan and it feels like coming home.

In both of their favorite scenarios there are long moments afterwards spent tangled in each other. Minutes devoted to soft kisses and a list of the bits they loved and want to do again next time. Porthos will smirk and call Aramis a pervert and Aramis will arch his eyebrow and they will fall to kissing again. 

They will sleep, then. Limbs wrapped tight some nights, only touching at their fingers on others. When they wake Porthos will make coffee and Aramis will grumble until his second cup and neither of them will say what is always on their minds; that they are lucky, lucky, lucky.

 

But this is not that story. Not yet. This is the story of everything that comes before.

 

___________________________

 

**Fifteen - Paris**

 

It’s unfair, really, that at almost sixteen Aramis is still suffering through his awkward phase.  In a few years his curls will be a gorgeous tousled mess, but today he is still struggling to grow out his mother’s well-intentioned home haircut. It leaves his ears exposed and shows off that he has yet to really grow into them. And while his face will always been youthful and angelic, even well in to middle age, right now it is just the very definition of baby face.

No wonder, then, that the girl wants nothing to do with him. He smiles at her and tries to say hi, she arches her eyebrow and leaves the café with her friends. Aramis has resigned himself to buying a cappuccino and then moping into it when he hears the snickering from the corner.

The culprit is a dark-skinned young man with huge brown eyes and a massive dimple, and he is highly amused. Aramis glares at him and the boy just laughs louder.

“Oh, you should see your face!  Ain’t you a picture?  Looking like someone kicked your puppy in the teeth.”

Apparently the look on Aramis’ face goes from indignant to wounded because the boy settles his laughing and says, “C’mon, I’ll buy you some fancy frothy thing and you can drown your sorrows in it and we can discuss where someone with your ears ought to be setting his sights as far as women are concerned.”

Decades in the future, when they are having a fearsome argument where Aramis’ side is “The heart wants what the heart wants!” and Porthos’ side is “This isn’t dating, this is reckless endangerment!”  Porthos will bring up that Aramis has always aimed far beyond where wisdom would caution him to stop.

Aramis will splutter for a moment and say, “Is this… are you talking about that girl in the café?!”

“I said it then and I’ll say it now, that girl was way out of your league.”

It will break the tension and they will be able to start discussing the real problem like mostly-rational adults. But that is years from now.

Today they sit at the corner table and Aramis notes that Porthos has no room, really, to talk about anyone else’s ears. Porthos allows as how that’s true, that he’s lucky he likes his girls less picky. The truth is that Porthos’ experience with love is made entirely of a night of frantic groping in the dark with one girl and rushed fumbling in a basement with one boy. His life doesn’t allow a lot of room for romance; he is mostly concerned with keeping his belly full and trying to not to get arrested. 

When they part on the street Porthos says, “There’s a park near here, yeah?  The one with the waterfall. You know it?”

Aramis does.

“Sometimes I hang out there in the evenings. If you’re ever not busy or whatever you could meet me by the old puppet theater.”

Aramis gives a casual shrug. “Sure, I might come by.”

 

Aramis does not come into his parents’ flat crowing about how he thinks he made a friend, but his mother can see the excitement on his face. They’re new in Paris, they’ve transferred in from Lyon and he is entranced by this gorgeous, lush city but getting to know people in a new place isn’t easy. 

His mother misses Argentina, she has since the first time his father’s job moved them out of the country. She knows she is settling in slowly and she feels guilty about how it must be affecting Aramis; but she misses her family and the countryside and the sound of her language in her ears. Aramis is fluent in French but he speaks Spanish at home, for his mother.

“Tell me what has you smiling!” she says, “and what kept you out so late.”  It’s not late, really, but his mother is a worrier.

Aramis tells her about Porthos, about how he’s from another part of the city but he comes to that café sometimes to read. In reality Porthos comes to a building near the café for court-ordered anger management counseling. He walks there and spends his Métro fare instead on coffee and one of the fruit tarts the owner makes from her grandmother’s recipe.  

He sits in the corner and tries to read and misses his mother so much it feels like someone’s punched him in the chest. He likes the café because it’s quiet and quiet is a rare commodity in Porthos’ life. Someday Porthos will tell Aramis all of this, all of the things that happen when he is out of Aramis’ company, but not that first day.

Aramis tells his mother that the boy is smart and funny and helped him not feel so bad about the thing with the girl. He explains about the girl and his mother fusses and says that’s nonsense that he’s beautiful and will be having to beat women back with a broom. He blushes under her praise.

 

The next evening, all the evenings he can, he goes to the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont to find Porthos. They kick a football back and forth and talk about everything and nothing. They stare at the tall bridges and the Temple de la Sibylle and Aramis talks about how different Paris is from Lyon. Porthos just listens. He’s lived in Paris, or close enough, his whole life but he and Aramis don’t live in the same city at all.

They talk about how their mothers both came to France from other countries. Porthos talks about how his mother was from Côte d’Ivoire. He tells his mother’s stories, about her family and her home. He doesn’t tell his own stories. He likes having someone in his life that’s never thought of him as a troublemaker. Aramis is someone who doesn’t know all the things Porthos had to do to keep food on the table before his mother died and a roof over his head after. He is starting to like the person Aramis sees.

 

When Aramis twists his wrist bad enough to be sidelined from any sport for a week he says the only bright spot is that his mother will make him _empanadas árabes_  for dinner the next day. They are his favorite, hers are the best, and they always brighten his mood.

They have known each other for six months now. Porthos’ counseling is over but he still walks three or four miles through Belleville to spend time with Aramis. He knows that Aramis knows he’s not from this area. He knows that Aramis has never once brought it up, never pried, never made him feel like anything other than a friend. 

So instead of just nodding and smiling Porthos opens his heart a tiny crack and says that he has no idea what his mother made when he was feeling bad. In even his earliest memories she was already so sick. He knows that when she was in the grips of a pain episode he took whatever meat and vegetables they had left in the house and boiled them in water and brought the not-quite-entirely-soup to her in her favorite tea mug. When she drank it he'd proclaim her nearly well and then fall asleep with his head on her leg and her hand in his hair.

He says all of this while tossing the ball back and forth between his hands and looking out over the park. In the silence that follows Aramis stuffs his hands in his hoodie and looks in the same direction. “Wanna come to dinner tomorrow?” 

“Yeah, alright.”

 

Over the next year Porthos comes to Aramis’ house for dinner regularly, but even in the face of intense maternal fussing he limits himself to no more than once a month. He knows he could get used to it, the warm light and enough food to feel full. He’s promised himself to never get used to anything provided by someone else. Not again.

At seventeen Porthos walks past a boucherie with a “help wanted” sign in the window and thinks that even a year ago he’d have kept walking. He is growing into his limbs and filling out and the owner says he could use someone not afraid of some heavy lifting. Truth be told, the owner is a little desperate for reliable help. The work is hard and honest and the owner’s wife cooks them huge lunches. He takes odd jobs for the weekends if he can find them and he starts, cautiously, to think about what his future might look like.

 

Aramis has been talking about going to seminary for weeks before the penny drops for Porthos. “I don’t get it. You’re leaving? To become a _priest?_ ”

“That is the general idea, yes.”

“When?”

“After I’m done with school. Three months.”

Porthos grips his shoulder with a meaty hand and says they’re going to fit all the misspent youth they can into those three months.

They drink until they fall down. They drink until inadvisable women are the loves of their lives. Aramis has sex for the first time on the office floor of their favorite bar after the bartender, dark-eyed Charlotte, hears them discussing Aramis’ plans and says no one should have to die a virgin. 

She isn't much older than them but she carries a worldly patina that makes her all the more attractive to their inexperienced eyes. It is every cliché of an awkward fumbling first time but it still takes Aramis almost an hour just to stop smiling. She fucks Porthos the next night after he jokingly asks when his turn is and she looks at her watch, shrugs and says, “I have a break coming up.” 

He wraps her legs around his waist and holds her up against the walk-in refrigerator; fucking her so hard they can hear the shelves inside clattering. She digs her nails into his back as she comes and when she’s straightening her skirt Charlotte says, “You should teach your friend a few of those tricks.” Porthos feels the heat creep up the back of his neck and his pupils go wide.

Charlotte’s grin says she didn’t miss a thing. “It’s like that, is it?” 

“No. It’s not.”

“Whatever, you’re the one who’s running out of time.”

The walk home takes forever and is not nearly long enough.

 

The next night Porthos brings two bottles of something just this side of vinegar and proposes that they sit in their park to drink them. They sprawl out next to the lake; underneath them the ground is still warm from the sun. Either Aramis is looking for an excuse to loosen his tongue or the wine is much stronger than they expected, whatever the reason he is barely halfway through his bottle when he starts to talk.

“Porthos?  We don’t say it but… you do know you’re my best friend, right?”

“Sure.”

“I've never met anyone like you. You don’t take any shit and you’re so loyal and...”  His words drift off and he stares up at the stars as Porthos speaks.

“Before I met you there was this kid I thought was my friend, yeah?  He’d hang out with me and we’d get into trouble together.”   Porthos digs at the grass with a twig and Aramis just waits and listens. "He turned on me the first chance he got, made sure I got into trouble without him. Big trouble.”    

In fact Stefan, faced with a lengthy sentence for auto theft, had told the police about the burglary he and Porthos had been planning together. The police were waiting inside the house when Porthos got through the window. 

Stefan got a lighter sentence on the other charges, Porthos got a short stint in the juvenile detention facility and, after the complete wreck he made of the interrogation room with his fists and boots, the counseling that brought him to Aramis’ neighborhood almost two years ago.

Porthos takes another pull at his bottle. “You never turned on me. Every time I tell you something I expect you to go running. But you never do. I’ve had lots of people who said they were my friends, but you really are.” 

With three more swigs of wine in him Aramis dares “I don’t have a brother but-“

“Sure you do,” Porthos says, cutting him off. He holds his bottle out and clinks it against Aramis’ and they drink in silence for a few more moments.

“So,” says Aramis, flopping back to lie in the damp grass and waggling his eyebrows at Porthos. “That Charlotte is certainly something.”

Porthos gives a great barking laugh that bounces off the old quarry walls around them.  He props himself on his elbows and takes another deep swallow of wine.  

“She said I should teach you some of my tricks.”

“Oh?” Aramis’ breath is caught in his throat and his voice suddenly sober. “What tricks are those?”

“I do this one thing… “

“Maybe you should demonstrate it,” Aramis’ eyes are bright.

Porthos chuckles low, “Cheeky suave fucker.”  And then he is kissing Aramis. He is pressing his mouth against Aramis’ lips and waiting for Aramis to bolt. Waiting for him to say that they’re drunk and this is a bad idea and that he doesn’t think of Porthos that way.  

He’s waiting for that but instead Porthos feels Aramis’ mouth open under his. The wine tastes sweeter in Aramis’ mouth and the kiss becomes hot and dirty. Porthos can feel Aramis clutching at his jacket. He pulls his head back, tugging at Aramis’ lower lip with his teeth.

He looks down into Aramis’ eyes, black in the dark, and says, “Yeah?”

Aramis laughs and pushes Porthos over on his back, draping himself over Porthos’ chest and saying, “Yeah,” before licking into Porthos’ mouth and sliding his hands up under Porthos’ shirt. His fingers dig into Porthos’ ribs and he moans.

Porthos grips Aramis by the ass and brings their hips together with a shameless grind and Aramis gasps out a shattered “Fuck!”   He looks down and grins. “Do that again.”  

Porthos leers back. “You do it.”  Aramis does. Everything after that is a blur of kissing, hot wet panting into each other’s mouths, and the slow drag of their jeans against each other. Porthos’ hands come up under Aramis’ arms and hook over the top of his shoulders. He uses the leverage to press Aramis down against him.

Aramis ruts against him twice and then his voice breaks on a sob and he is coming in his pants. Porthos rolls him onto his back, looks down into his face and kisses him, close-mouthed and soft and then drags his hips against Aramis’. In seconds he has his face buried in Aramis’ neck to muffle the loud “Shit shit shit!” as he comes.

There are more soft kisses after that and Aramis says, “Porthos,” soft and fond.

“I said we’d get some living in before you went off, didn’t I?”

“You did, and we certainly have. And it’ll keep me from temptation because nothing else could be as fun as these months have been.”  

Porthos laughs because Aramis has no idea what else the world holds, but he’s going off to become celibate, so it hardly seems fair to tell him now.

 

The day Aramis leaves, Porthos comes over to say goodbye. They’ve promised to write, but they both know how this might end. Standing by his father’s car Aramis wraps Porthos in a tight hug. His mouth against Aramis’ ear Porthos says, “I love you, brother.”

Aramis pulls back, and with his hand on the back of Porthos’ neck he brings their foreheads together. He looks Porthos in the eye and says, “I love you, too.”

Porthos watches them drive off and awkwardly hugs Aramis’ mother as she cries. He’ll still come for dinner, yes?  She promises to make the empanadas. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Wouldn’t miss 'em.”

 

 


	2. Nineteen - Barcelona

Aramis leaves seminary with a duffel full of clothes and books and the conviction that his God and the God of his teachers had perhaps met once in a bar for drinks, but that’s as close as they ever got.

For six months he works three jobs and lives on Porthos’ couch and saves every penny. Porthos brings home leftovers from lunch at the boucherie and they share them at the tiny table in the kitchen. If it is a good week, they have some wine as well.

It’s two weeks after Aramis gets back the first time that they split a whole bottle and Aramis gets tipsy enough to kiss Porthos. The make-out session that follows is sweaty and sloppy, and when it is over Porthos has a horrible pinch on the left side of his neck and Aramis has rug burn on the small of his back.

In the morning when Aramis smiles awkwardly at Porthos over his coffee, Porthos says, “Just so you know, if you want to kiss me you can do it any time. There’s no need to give yourself a hangover just trying to get a kiss.”

Aramis leans across the table to test that, and Porthos' lips are bitter with the taste of coffee. Porthos squeezes Aramis’ neck and says “We missed you while were gone.”

“I missed you more.”

Porthos grins. “Probably."

 

When spring comes again Aramis boards a plane to Barcelona. He’ll take the train to Pamplona and hike the Camino de Santiago de Compostella and see if he can't come to God on his own terms.

Porthos drives him to the airport. They hug like they can impart a bit of themselves into the other then Porthos takes Aramis’ head face in his hands and lays a smacking kiss on his forehead. “Please try not to do anything stupid, there’s people who love you and want you back in one piece.”   Aramis doesn’t promise anything.

 

His flight lands at 10am and his train leaves at 4pm. At quarter past six Aramis is still at the bar of the pub across the street from the station and he is in love.

Emilia is nursing a Carlsberg and explaining to him the beauty of internal combustion engines. He is facing her on his barstool, staring at her hands.  When she finishes her beer she turns to face him, brackets his knees with her own and closes them slightly until she is pressing her long legs against his.

She takes his palm and sketches with her finger how she brought together the pieces of the first motorcycle she ever rebuilt. Why would she want to come home clean at the end of the day, she asks, when she could come home smelling of oil and leather instead?  He is sure she is perfection.

When he finishes his beer she presses her knees in further until his legs are together and she leans into his space. “Are you ready to come upstairs?”

Her flat is neat but tiny and when she gets him where she wants him, nude and spread like a feast across her enormous bed he can almost touch the walls on either side. She is stripped to a pink lace bra and a pair of black boxer briefs and straddling his hips as she kisses him. More than kissing: she is opening him with her mouth.

She sits back on his thighs and drags her nails across his chest, snagging them on his nipples to hear him hiss. Her hair hides her face as she ducks her head but he can feel her soothing each one with kisses.

Less gentle are the bruises she sucks into his inner thighs as she spreads his legs. He wonders if he should feel uncomfortable at how open he is to her but then she is licking a stripe up the underside of his cock and he has no more room for embarrassment.

The noises she makes as she sucks him are obscene and unashamed; she loves the feel of him in her mouth and dragging over her lips. Aramis can feel his grip on control slipping and as he is beginning a quiet prayer that he will not come too soon he feels her finger stroke at the skin behind his balls. He sucks in a deep gasp. He can feel her laughter in her throat, around his cock, and he can feel her slide that finger in alongside him, sucking at them both.

This time there is no stroking, instead there is the press of her finger against his hole and he is spilling into her mouth with no warning except his hoarse shout.

Emilia is smiling as she crawls over him again but her grin is wicked. “I believe we have found something you like.”  His nod is dazed but certain. “Now what do you think I might like?”   Anything. He will give her anything if she will only keep up the sweep of her dark hair across his skin and the stroke of her fingers. He tells her so.

She laughs and says, “Prove it,” then strips off her boxers and settles her cunt over his mouth. Her fingernails stroke over his scalp and she can feel his moan vibrate against her as she braces her arms on his shoulders and strokes her clit against his nose.

With his tongue flat and broad he takes long swipes at her pussy then licks deep into her to see which she likes best. She likes all of it and Aramis can feel her toes digging into his skin as she gets close. When she comes she laughs, the sound bright and loud in the dark room.

After kissing him she swipes at his mouth with her boxers and tosses them to a far corner. She wants to be the big spoon and he pulls her arm around him, holding her knuckles to his lips and whispering his thanks to whomever is listening.  Her feet tuck under his and her forehead presses between his shoulder blades and they are asleep almost immediately.

 

Aramis spends his days in museums, in parks, in libraries. He falls in love with Spanish again, speaking to anyone just to feel the words in his mouth. He visits the repair shop and watches Emilia’s long legs flex as she pushes bikes into the garage. She tells him about how the pieces work together and he is enthralled.

At night he cooks for her and she rewards him most often by sucking his brains out through the head of his cock. Afterwards she spreads his legs and works him open with her fingers and tongue until he is hard again and then she rides him until they are both dripping with sweat.

He is far from quiet anymore. He thanks her for her fingers, for how they feel stretching him open, how he wants them deeper. The way he responds to her twisting them in him, tugging at the rim of his hole, is nothing less than a whine. The first time she brings out the slim purple plug he balks. She holds it up next to three of her fingers together and cocks an eyebrow. "You’ve had bigger," she says. “And you’ll have bigger still."

She props her head on her elbow and looks into his face as she spreads lube over his entrance, dipping her fingers into him so shallowly that it’s a torment.  Her eyes never leave his as she pushes the toy against him in short, slow strokes. At first she isn’t even opening him; he believes he may die before she gets it far enough in to satisfy this aching need.

His eyes clench closed, savoring the press of it against him until he hears Emilia’s voice say “Aramis, look at me. This time I want to watch your eyes while I’m fucking you.”   This time. This time. And then it is in him, sliding against the ring of muscle and he can feel every ridge, every flare and there are bright stars in his vision as he realizes he is holding his breath.

As he takes a deep, gasping breath she slides it back out and then, as she promised, she watches his eyes as he comes apart under her. “Please,” he says. Then, “Thank you.”

“Is it good, my Aramis?”

“Yes. Yes, it’s so good. Emilia. You are so good.”

She slides the plug the rest of the way in and then taps at the base, bumping it against him until he is clutching at the sheets. When she straddles him she doesn’t even take him into her. She just slides her clit along his cock while he bucks against her, every clench of his muscles tightening his asshole around the plug.

While she rides him she whispers in his ear. “You are so hungry for it, aren’t you?  And so good for me.”   His only answer is close to a sob. “You must think me so boring, always wanting the same thing when you are in my bed. But how could I not when you are so beautiful for me like this?   How does it feel, darling?”

“I feel like you are everywhere.”

She looks into his eyes again as she grinds her clit against him in little circles. She is panting and he thinks she is close, he prays she is because he can not hold on for long.

“One day soon I’m going to get out the cock I fuck myself with when I am alone, I am going to fit it into my harness, and I am going to fuck you with it. I’m going to watch your gorgeous ass open for me and I am going to see how beautiful you can be when I make you lay there and take it."

He can feel his come spill against his belly, feel her smearing it against him as she rides out her own orgasm, laughing, as always. She lets him keep the plug in until she is finished wiping them both off. He drifts off while she is cleaning the toy and wakes only long enough to feel her sprawl out on top of him, her leg slotting between his own and her hair in his nose.

 

He calls home the next day and tells Porthos he’s found God and she lives in Barcelona and does this  _thing_  with her fingers. Porthos stops him by laughing and says, “Why don’t you just show me the next time you’re home, alright?”  Aramis doesn’t know if he’s joking but he feels his face grow hot anyway at the idea of how much wider Porthos’ fingers might stretch him and how the heat of a flesh-and-blood cock inside him would feel so different from Emilia’s silicone one.

That weekend she is as good as her word. They have a long dinner but only one glass of wine each. When he stretches out next to her in the bed and begins to kiss her mouth her arm slides up his back until it is pressing between his shoulder blades.  She pushes him on to his front and slides a pillow under his hips.

Her laugh is filthy as she tells him how good he looks like this, with his ass presenting itself to her. She asks if he’s been thinking about this, and without shame he says, “Yes. Yes, constantly.”

It feels like it takes hours for her to slick him up and slide her fingers into him. Whenever his moans begin to quiet she leans down and bites into the meat of his ass until he hisses through his teeth. Eventually he is stretched enough that she is slipping her fingers into him only to hear the sucking pull as she takes them back out.

“I wish you could see this, my love. Your ass is so hungry for me it tries to hold on to my fingers. How badly you must need this, yes?”  She leaves him prone and heaving while she tugs the straps of her harness tight. Aramis looks over his shoulder and is surprised to see that the toy itself is totally smooth. He is not surprised to see that it is black.

Emilia climbs back over him and bites at his earlobe. She whispers “I am going to hold your cheeks apart with my hands so I can see every bit of you stretching around my cock. Is that what you want?”

His “Please.  _Please,”_ is barely more than a whisper.

He can feel her palms against his ass, her thumbs holding him open, and then the lube-slick tip of the silicone cock pressing against him. Most nights she loves to take her time. She loves to watch his hips hitch up towards her fingers like they are begging independent of his will. But not tonight.

This time she snugs the tip against his hole and then presses into Aramis in one long, endless push. He groans at the feeling and now he knows why the toy is smooth, he isn’t distracted by the bump of ridges or flares. There is nothing to tear his focus from the never-ending drag of it into him. With nothing to break it up the slide seems to go on forever.

When her hips are finally tight against his he can only take deep, heaving breaths. He can feel it as Emilia falls forward and arches her body over his. She interlaces her fingers with his under his shoulders, using his grip for leverage, and rests her forehead against the nape of his neck.

“That was so gorgeous, my Aramis. I wish you could have seen how your hole just took me in. It is so needy, isn’t it, darling?  Just like you. It needs to be filled, you need to be fucked, and you are both so good.”

His head is spinning and all he wants is for her to  _move_. “Please, yes. Need you to fuck me, need you to fill me. God, it’s huge. Feels so good. Please.”

When he feels her hips pull back his mind goes blank. Later he will remember that the radio was playing “Texas Flood” and that the air was warm and sticky. In the moment there is only the insistent press of her hips into his and his vision narrows until all he can see is the tattoo of a dragon that snakes up her forearm.

Her lips are dripping praise into his ear, telling him how beautiful he looks in the moonlight, how she’d been dreaming of him like this, how he is perfect, how fucking him like this is the best way she can thank him for how well he fucks her. He can feel the sweat pooling between his shoulder blades. With his lips and tongue he traces the dragon’s tail and thinks that this is one of the most perfect moments of his life.

When she grows quiet he fills the silence himself. He tells her how beautiful she is, how he never even imagined this, that he loves to do this for her. He begs her to fuck him.

“More, god. Harder. Faster. Anything. Please I need it. Need your cock in my ass. Need -” he breaks off in a strangled moan.

“My gorgeous Aramis, my beautiful slut, yes. You have earned it, taking it so well for me, letting me see you come apart like this."

She shifts her weight until she is pressing him harder into the pillow. _Finally._ With her weight on his hips he has the friction he needs to fuck his cock against the pillow. The fabric drags over his skin beautifully and the shift in angle is throwing sparks deep inside him.

Aramis gasps and clutches at her fingers. “Emilia!”

She snaps her hips and says, “Come for me, let me watch you. Come.”

Her fingers clutch his harder, and with only a few more thrusts he is coming against the bed, against his own skin. Through the roaring in his ears he hears her coo endearments. He feels her lips against his temple. He feels her slide the toy out of him and he almost weeps.

She fucks her fingers back into him, feeling how slick and open he is. “If I were a man I would do this just to feel my come. I would watch a little slip out and know that you were holding the rest of me inside you.”

He can hear the harness clatter on the floor and feel her stretch out next to him taking two of his fingers and sliding them inside herself. She is soaked and he feels it dripping down his fingers; she grinds herself against the heel of his hand until he hears her gorgeous gasping laugh.

Aramis turns to watch her as she walks away from the bed to fetch a wet facecloth from the tiny bathroom. The sight of the moonlight slanting across her ass and her hair brushing the small of her back is the one he keeps in his head when he finally boards the train to Pamplona three weeks later.  With both hands she blows him kisses from the platform and he can hear her laugh, bright and clear even through the train window.

 

The Camino is long but the time is good for him. He thinks that even with the move to France and then again to Paris he never realized quite how much of the world he knew nothing about. Not that he wants to strike out at all corners, but it does put his life in perspective.

While he walks Aramis thinks about Emilia and that rush of joy and giddy anticipation, how he felt it strongest in the first weeks. Aramis would fall in love every week if it meant he could feel that way forever. He thinks about Porthos and the way Aramis always feels around him. He feels light, like there is a second set of shoulders under everything he carries, and like anything could happen. Aramis knows he wants that in his life always.

Someday, he hopes, Porthos will find someone who loves him with the fierce singular devotion which Porthos himself is capable of. He will find someone who will fall in love with him, only him, steady and forever. Porthos has earned that simple happiness. Aramis wants to know Porthos for the rest of his life, and the idea of never seeing Porthos loved in the way he deserves in all that time makes Aramis have to sit down next to the rocky path and just breathe in and out for several long minutes.    

At Cruce de Ferro Aramis puts his stone on the pile and though it is not tradition he leaves one for Porthos as well. He feasts on simple meals that go on forever, beef and bread and cheesy pasta with _chorizo_.  The walk up the hills to O’Cebreiro is grueling but the welcome at the top is warm. At the end, in the cathedral, he takes a seat next to a prim-faced nun and listens to the mass.

When the _Botafumeiro_ begins to swing his mouth drops open. He knew it was coming, of course, but nothing prepared him for the deep whoosh of it passing and how the sweet smoke reaches his nose. It seems like he watches it swing for hours and it’s only when he feels the nun squeeze his hand and sees her smile warmly that he realizes he’s crying. Aramis climbs the stairs behind the altar and hugs the saint’s statue and when he walks out into the square he is in a daze. He sits on a bench in the square and thinks about calling Porthos.

Another group of pilgrims is also celebrating on this day. They have a hotel room where they will take hot showers and then they are off to dinner. Will he join them? Of course he will.

On any other day he would expect a group of young people running in and out of the same shower would be cause for a good amount of groping and innuendo about conserving water, if not outright sex on the sink. Today everyone seems to be feeling their faith a little stronger so there is none of that. They take turns using the phone to book reservations to wherever home is.

 

After dinner, after wine, after hours sitting in the square telling stories, Aramis can’t resist any longer. He says goodnight and finds a pay phone where he can call home. Porthos, it seems, is not best pleased.

“Are you dead?”

“Alas no, this call is entirely earthly.”

“Are you trapped under something heavy?”

“And how would I reach the phone?”

“Then why in god’s name are you ringing me at half three in the morning?”

“Porthos my good man, I finished, I’m coming home.”

Porthos’ voice is awake now. “Yeah? When?”

“Yes, absolutely. I couldn’t get on a train until Monday. My flight leaves Madrid half past six and I get in to de Gaulle at twenty to nine.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Porthos, I can make it in to the city on my own.” 

“I  **said**  I’ll be there.”

When Aramis comes up the jet way and in to the terminal he sees Porthos smiling and knows how every medieval pilgrim walking that road felt when they got home.  

“Hey!  There you are!” Porthos laughs and his arms are around Aramis tight and fierce. Aramis slips his hands up under Porthos’ jacket to rest them against his worn t-shirt and just holds on until his heart stops hammering.

“Come on,” says Porthos, pulling back and clapping him on the shoulders. “Lets get your pack and get out of here. Your family’s waiting.”

Aramis knows that one of them is already here.


	3. Twenty - Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slight snuffling noise on his shoulder tells Aramis that Porthos has drifted off a little. Aramis wraps his free arm around Porthos’ shoulders and thinks he might rest as well. Before he closes his eyes he looks around the room at the piles of books, the sheets worn soft with years of washing, the warm, sleeping man with his face pressed into Aramis’ skin, and thinks, ‘I live here now.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I would be lost without ceeturnalia who makes everything better, tighter, stronger. And points out when I've suddenly had June twice.

His mother offers to let Aramis stay with them. His room is mostly her studio now, but there is still a bed and the offer is tempting.

“You’re the best,” Porthos tells her, “but you can keep your painting space. He’s got a spot set up at my place.” Aramis smiles and there it is again, the sense that Porthos’ shoulders are bearing up under all of Aramis’ burdens. 

Porthos’ flat is a mile or so on the other side of the park, and they walk most of it in silence before Aramis speaks. 

“So. You set me up a spot in your place?” 

“Your mum is great, but you’re used to being on your own. I know you love 'em, but you’re not a kid. Parents never see that, I guess.”  Porthos shrugs, he’s not sure what parents do or don’t see in their grown children. "I wanted… You should have a space where you can be who you are now.”

Aramis’ pack is usually a solid weight around his shoulders and hips. At this moment he feels light as air. 

Porthos tells him about his jobs, about the books he’s been reading, about how he found this flat. Aramis knows most of it, they talked a more than a few times during the months he was in Spain, but Porthos’ voice is a warm comfort so close to him, so he doesn’t interrupt.

The flat is small (“Cozy!” Aramis will say when they describe it to others. “Fucking tiny,” Porthos will argue.) but there is an enormous claw-foot bathtub in the bathroom and Aramis is having fantasies about it already. Porthos grins at his look. “I was imagining your face when you saw that. This is better than I thought. You want a go?”

“If I did right now I’d fall asleep in it. I want to, badly. And I want to talk to you. But...”

“Not tonight, you’re practically asleep where you stand. And you live here now, there’s plenty of time.”

“I live here now?”

Porthos’ shrug is tense and it’s clear he’s nervous but Aramis isn’t sure why. “If you like. ’S not like I need space for a studio like your mum.”

Aramis doesn’t dare speak for a minute while the knot in his throat loosens. “I suppose we could make it work,” he says, voice heavy with false exasperation.

The corner of Porthos’ mouth curls in a smile. “Silly bastard. Go to bed. I’ve got work in the morning but I’ll be home after four and we’ll have dinner, yeah?”

Aramis hugs him and if it goes on longer than either of them expected, neither of them says anything.

The bath Aramis takes while Porthos is at work lasts for almost two hours and is better than his fantasies in every way.

 

Over dinner Porthos tells Aramis about the girl he dated briefly after Aramis first left. “Sweet girl, I thought, a little quiet maybe. Then, for our two week anniversary...” he pauses to let that sink in. “For our  _two week anniversary_  she gave me a future scrapbook.”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“She had pictures of houses and schools in there. It was fucking terrifying.”

Aramis is laughing so hard he’s gasping. “What did you do?”

“What could I do?  Told her I was joining the Army.”

Aramis drops his head into his hands and then wipes at the tears in his eyes. If a strange look crosses Porthos’ face, Aramis doesn’t see it. “Of course you did. Why am I only hearing this now? ”

“I was saving it up. Also you were busy in Barcelona, and you were a little… focused.”

Aramis can feel the heat on his neck as he thinks about Emilia.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“That so?  What are some others?”  Porthos asks, his smile taunting.

Aramis answers it with a smirk. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Hear it, see it, makes no difference to me. Told you when you called I could go for a demo. Did you think I was joking?.”  He raises his eyebrows once and cocks his head, and then gets up from the table and walks away.

Aramis follows; in the bedroom Porthos is drawing the curtains closed. “I never realize how much I miss you, until I see you again,” Aramis says. He’s not sure where the words came from, but they’re true.

Porthos laughs. “You’re lost without me, admit it.”  His shove sends Aramis flopping backwards onto the bed.

They strip each other in a battle of swatting hands and complaints about the other not being fast enough. When they are both naked, Porthos stretches out on top of Aramis, their skin touching at every possible place. He kisses Aramis, close-mouthed and hard.

Aramis rocks against him, and there is a hot drag of skin on skin. “Uh-uh,” Porthos says, sliding off to lie beside Aramis. “You’re not distracting me, I want to know all about your new tricks.”

Aramis wants this to be perfect, to be the dreamy haze of lust and newness that he had with Emilia. But this is Porthos: they’ve known each other too long. There’s no need for dreamy when there can be this laughter and light, and if Aramis is honest, he’s missed their particular imperfection.

He takes Porthos’ hand in his own, and sucks the index and middle fingers into his mouth. Aramis licks over the pads of Porthos’ fingers, dragging at them with his teeth and using his tongue to get them thoroughly sloppy. He’s not sure if it’s their own history of seeing each other warts and all, or the way he remembers how Emilia loved watching him come undone, but Aramis has no shame in his eyes at all when he brings his knees up and lets them drop open.

He doesn’t break eye contact with Porthos as he brings Porthos’ fingers to stroke at the sensitive skin behind his balls. His eyes only drop closed when Porthos takes the cue and presses at the spot, rubbing his spit-slick fingers and sliding over the skin.

There’s a soft whine from Aramis’ throat and Porthos chuckles quietly.  “Yeah?  Tell me more.”   

Aramis arches his back, tilts his hips forward and when Porthos’ fingers slip back to slide against his entrance Aramis’ mouth drops open in a strangled groan while his eyes squeeze shut. 

Porthos is in no hurry, has nowhere else he’d rather be, so he takes his time mapping Aramis’ responses. He notes how Aramis chokes off a gasp and his eyes fly open when Porthos circles his fingers. He doesn’t miss how, when he presses just a bit with the pads of his fingers, Aramis’ eyes slam shut again and tears prick at the corners. Aramis’ lips are dry and his voice growing hoarse when he takes Porthos’ wrist in his hand and stops him. 

“Lube. The next part needs lube.” 

Porthos grins, wicked, and reaches across Aramis to pull the lube from the drawer in the side table. Aramis can feel the hair on Porthos’ chest drag across his skin and hisses at the contact. With his fingers slicked Porthos returns to his task, stroking again and rubbing with increasing pressure. Aramis’ patience finally snaps. 

“Now. Now, now, inside me now.” He grabs at Porthos’ forearm and Porthos grins. 

“Did _she_ let you get this bossy?” 

“ _She_ never made me wait this long!” 

Porthos curls his index finger until the tip is pressing against Aramis and then strokes it in, feeling the clenching heat around his skin. Aramis lets out a startled yelp and Porthos yanks back. “Too much?” 

“No, not at all, just. That nail.” 

Porthos frowns. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Are you alright?”  He moves to pull his hand away. "I’m stopping.” 

Aramis tightens his grip on Porthos’ forearm. “You fucking well are not! Just… here.”  He takes the middle finger on Porthos’ hand, strokes his thumb experimentally over the nail and, satisfied with what he finds there, fucks it slowly into himself. His drawn-out moan brings Porthos back around to the idea of continuing, and before long Porthos has taken over again.

When Aramis lets out a frustrated whine and curls his hips up into Porthos’ hand, Porthos adds another finger and watches as Aramis’ face relaxes. He smiles again. 

“Did she tell you how you look like this?  Did she tell you how your face shows everything you’re feeling?  Watching your mouth and your eyes and how you’re panting for it. God, Aramis. Makes me want to keep fucking you with my fingers until you come just from them.” 

Aramis preens under the praise, his mouth a broad open smile and his hips rolling into Porthos’ strokes. Porthos curls his fingers and Aramis cries out, his voice a pained and joyful shout.

“You love this, love having something filling you. Did she tell you how incredibly gorgeous you look when you want it this much?  How pretty a slut you make?”   Porthos isn’t sure about that last bit but when Aramis bites down on his own lower lip and sobs out a whimper Porthos knows it was the right thing to say. And it’s true, after all. Aramis has never been more beautiful and Porthos loves that he can make Aramis fall apart like this.  

“Was this your favorite, then?  Was this what you liked best from her?” 

Aramis moans and drags in a deep breath. “I love all of it.” 

Porthos laughs low and deep, “Now that wasn’t an answer, was it?”  He twists his fingers and Aramis keens. “Tell me the thing you loved best.”

“She fucked me, I loved being fucked best. Being filled like that.”

“Not with her fingers, then?”

 Aramis shakes his head, eyes shut tight, and his hair drags across the pillow. “Strap-on. This slick, smooth one first.”

“First?  What later?”

“Bigger, more real.”

“And did you like that one better?”

Aramis presses his cheek into the pillow, “It felt like a real cock inside me. Loved that. And it was so big.”

“Did she loosen you up like this?”  Porthos curls his fingers again, feeling how hot and slick Aramis is like this, slippery with lube and so tight.

“Sometimes. Sometimes…” He trails off and opens his eyes again to look at Porthos. “Sometimes with her mouth.”

Porthos can feel his own cock jerk at that thought, and his eyes widen for a second. “Did she lick you open for her nice big cock?  Did she get her tongue right. up. in. here?” He punctuates his words with a thrust of his fingers and Aramis sobs his reply.

“Yes.”

“And you loved that?”

“God yes, so much.”

“Well, that’ll be something good to keep in mind. But not tonight.” Porthos ducks his head then, and sucks the tip of Aramis’ cock into his mouth at the same time as he drives his fingers deep and twists. Aramis thrusts up once and comes with a shout.

With one hand Aramis pulls Porthos’ face to his own, kissing him deep and tasting himself on Porthos’ lips. The other he wraps around Porthos’ cock and strokes at the head with his thumb.

He slides his hand along the hot length of Porthos, and whispers, "You’re so good to me, Porthos. Made me come so hard. Will you let me?”  

Porthos buries his face in Aramis’ neck, sucking and licking at the skin there as if mapping it with his mouth. “Yeah, don’t stop.” 

Aramis puts his mouth to Porthos’ ear. “Someday I want to come with this inside me.”  

Porthos gives a stuttering grunt and spills into Aramis’ hand, his arms clutching at Aramis’ back and shoulders. Aramis slides his hand free and Porthos rides out the aftershocks with his cock sliding against Aramis’ hip. The hand Aramis had curled around the back of Porthos’ neck is now stroking idly at Porthos’ hair, twisting in his curls.   

There is a shuddering sigh as the last of Porthos’ orgasm wrings out of him and he rolls slightly to the side, so his weight isn’t all on Aramis. He grabs a discarded t-shirt and wipes his hand on it before haphazardly swiping at his belly and tossing it to the corner.

A slight snuffling noise on his shoulder tells Aramis that Porthos has drifted off a little. Aramis wraps his free arm around Porthos’ shoulders and thinks he might rest as well. Before he closes his eyes he looks around the room at the piles of books, the sheets worn soft with years of washing, the warm, sleeping man with his face pressed into Aramis’ skin, and thinks, ‘I live here now.’

 

Aramis finds a job tending bar not far from their flat. Porthos spends most of Aramis’ shifts sitting nearby and heckling as Aramis flirts. Aramis takes to glaring at Porthos over the taps and that only makes Porthos laugh harder. “You’d think once you finally grew into those ears it might make those faces of yours more menacing.”

At night, after both of them are finished with work and the rest of the world, they retreat to Porthos’ huge bed in his tiny bedroom and learn each other. Aramis learns that Porthos doesn’t need to be opened as slowly as Aramis does, that Porthos likes less lube and more friction and the dragging burn of Aramis’ fingers inside him.

They’d messed around together before, of course. Before Aramis left for seminary, and before he left for Spain. But then it was always just fevered friction. Then it was enough, more than enough, and they were so anxious for it they never took their time like they do now.

Porthos learns that half an hour with his ass at the mercy of Porthos’ tongue makes Aramis’ cock incredibly sensitive, and the orgasms that follow are almost too much. He learns that Aramis’ teeth or fingernails digging around his nipples will make him almost instantly hard, and that letting Aramis realize that fact was a huge mistake.

They learn that while neither of them minds sleeping in the wet spot, they can both only take a few minutes with come spattered on their skin before it needs to be licked or cleaned off; otherwise it gets itchy and spoils the afterglow.

There are so many experiences they both have on their wish lists, but they are young and the world seems made of time.

 

On Tuesdays and Wednesdays there are two hours between the end of Porthos’ shift and the start of Aramis’, and as often as they can, they spend those hours together. They return to their park and find a spot for an early supper. For both of them it feels like the early days of their friendship. There are stories told and secrets shared.

When Porthos finally plucks up the courage to ask out the cute blonde bar back that works the weekend shift with Aramis, it’s after weeks of fretting and asking Aramis for reassurance that he won’t be making a fool of himself. He tells Aramis about the first girl he ever asked on a date; her name was Heloise and she lived in the girls’ room at the group home he went to after his mother died. She’d turned him down flat; she didn’t like big guys, she said.

These days Porthos knows that meant she didn’t like guys who reminded her of her father; guys who could grip her wrist hard enough to break it. But as a kid he’d taken it so personally, he’d already felt so awkward. Every step into that world since then has been cautious and unsure. Aramis nods at this, says it makes perfect sense and that Porthos shouldn’t let the memories of scared children keep him from a possible date with the lovely Therèse.

She says yes. Aramis is thrilled. He claps Porthos on the shoulder and recommends a good place for coffee. When Porthos arrives to pick her up at the end of her shift Aramis watches them leave and hopes that he will always see Porthos smiling like that. Porthos has more than earned it.

The first date is splendid. The second through seventh are as well, even the fourth one, the one that ends with the neighbors yelling at them to please take the make-out session _inside_  her flat. The eighth date is to a concert where Therèse stares slack-jawed at the band’s drummer and goes home with him at the end of the night.

Aramis gets Porthos drunk the next night and then in the morning wakes him with a warm, wet mouth around his cock. Porthos comes with his fingers clutching at Aramis’ hair and thinks that maybe he’ll survive a little heartbreak.

 

On a Wednesday in the spring they’re sitting near the puppet theater when a woman in sharp heels walks past. She is on the phone, loudly castigating someone in Portuguese. Five feet past them she stops speaking, hushes the person on the other end of her phone, and turns on her toe to come back to their picnic spot . She stares at Aramis.

“Have dinner with me tomorrow.”

He tilts his head in acceptance. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

She hands him an old-fashioned calling card and Aramis smiles, stroking it across his lips as she walks away.

Her name is Lucia. She loves Brazilian football, Italian opera, and, for a time, Aramis. Porthos would have expected it to be loud and fiery; instead it is quietly but fiercely passionate. Every chance they get Lucia and Aramis spend Saturday nights at the pub and Sunday mornings reading in bed.

She makes him do the quizzes in women’s magazines (his Fashion Personality is Classic and Comfortable, she tells him) and he rubs his thumb over the bones of her wrist and kisses her hand right at the base of her thumb.

They obey every cliché and have orange juice and _pain au chocolat_ while they read. It makes her kisses into sunshine and she smears chocolate up his back as she rides his cock. Later, like a sated cat, she licks it clean, telling him how he tastes of cocoa and sweat. He drags his finger through the last of the chocolate on the plate and paints her cunt with it. He sucks and licks at her until she comes for the third time, cursing in her mother’s native Catalonian and clutching her fingers in his hair, tearing his face away from her over sensitized flesh.

He kisses her mouth, filthy and open. She can taste herself and the last bit of chocolate left at the corner of his lips.

Lucia leaves in late August, there is a job in Miami that can only be done by her, it seems. Her eyes are sadder than he would have expected as she drags her thumb across his mouth. He tells her he can picture her holding court in the lobby bar of an Art Deco hotel. He tells her she should develop a ruinously expensive millinery habit to keep the sun from her face.

He expects their last kiss to be deep and wet so he is surprised when instead she brushes her mouth lightly over his and smiles. He watches her walk back into her flat and regrets nothing save for how he never asked her to wear those heels to bed.

Porthos adored Lucia, so he and Aramis drown their sorrows side by side; they fall into bed and whisper filthy suggestions for what they could have done with her together. They don’t talk about it in the morning, but for weeks Aramis will catch Porthos randomly staring into the distance. When Aramis calls him on it, Porthos' face flushes and Aramis knows exactly what he is thinking about.

 

As fall goes on Porthos grows cagey. Aramis knows he’s hiding something but he can’t pin it down. They meet each other one Tuesday in the park but instead of lounging under a tree, waiting for Porthos, Aramis is standing with his arms crossed and his face stormy. It isn’t until Porthos is almost next to him that he sees the paper in Aramis’ hand.

Aramis’ voice is ice. “When, exactly, were you planning to tell me about this?”  He’s holding out an envelope and his hand is shaking.

“You gave me less notice when you were leaving for seminary. And you weren’t coming back from that. Eventually I’ll get leave and be able to visit.”

“Yes, Porthos, but when I aspired to the clergy? The risk that I’d be shot at in an active war zone was vanishingly small!  This is the Army!”

Porthos sighs, resigned, and scrubs at his face with his hand. “The Fourchets are selling the shop. You’re settled in one spot at last. I thought… I thought maybe it might be time to see what I can make of myself.”

“Make of yourself?  Porthos, you _already_ make something of yourself. Every day. For fuck’s sake, _you_ took care of _my_ mother while I was traipsing about the Spanish countryside."

“Aramis. I talked to the recruiter for a long time. There’s a unit he thinks I’d be a good fit for. They’re rapid response, first ones on the ground. The first ones to help, the first ones to push back. I already know how to fight, to stick up for myself. What if I could stick up for someone else?  What if I could…”   

What if he could stand between a bully and a child, is what he doesn’t say. What if somewhere there’s a kid whose family was just wiped away and Porthos can make sure that kid doesn’t disappear into the confusion that always follows?

Porthos doesn’t have to say those things, Aramis can see it all on his face, and that’s what stops him from begging, “Don’t leave me.” But it can’t stop the fear, can’t stop the gnawing feeling that he needs to say everything now, all at once, before it’s too late.

He doesn’t say everything, though; he knows that Porthos knows most of it anyway. He does rest his forehead on Porthos’ shoulder, and let some of the pent-up tension drain out of him with a long sigh. “I know it’s no use,” he says, “because you’re absent good sense when you’re being protective, but please try not to get yourself killed. I don’t know what happens to me without you.”

Porthos cups the back of Aramis’ head in his big hand, kisses him behind his ear, and promises to be careful. When it comes time he won’t be, and they both know it, but he means it in the moment and that is enough.

 

Aramis tries not to make every minute after that into some kind of last supper. He tries not to announce when they only have twelve weekends left or two more dinners with his parents or five more Tuesdays to lie in the afternoon sun in the park. He tries especially not to cling desperately to Porthos when they’re in bed. He succeeds, sometimes.

 The first few times they are together after the envelope comes, Aramis finds his fingers clutching so fiercely that Porthos actually says something. Aramis huffs an embarrassed laugh and apologizes with an excruciatingly long handjob and deep drugging kisses.

Aramis flips the calendar one day, and there it is, a day circled in red at the bottom of the month. He feels like there is a fist around his heart, and it takes a moment to catch his breath. He calls his mother and makes a special request for dinner the next week.

When they are on their way home, stuffed with _empanadas_  and carrying a bag full of leftovers, Aramis suggests stopping for a bottle of wine and drinking it in the park. Porthos stops him with a hand on his shoulder and quiet smile.

“You sentimental idiot. You didn’t need to get me drunk to kiss me that night, and you don’t need to do it tonight either.”  He hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Aramis’ jeans and tugs him closer. “There isn’t anything of me that isn’t yours for a song, you know that.”   

Porthos leans in and kisses Aramis, soft and close-mouthed, but the low growl is full of promise. “Home,” he says.

They both live in this space, they’ve come in to it alone or together for months now. There is no reason they should be shy and awkward together, no reason this place should feel strange and new but tonight it does. Porthos pushes Aramis against the back of the door, twisting the locks with his fingers and sucking at the skin beneath Aramis’ ear.

Porthos’ hands slip down into Aramis’ jeans to cup his ass and dig at the meat of the muscles with his fingernails. He strokes one finger over Aramis’ hole and pushes slightly. He’s not trying to push in, just letting Aramis feel the pressure, but Aramis whines and Porthos answers with a quiet laugh.

“There are times I think perhaps I should have," he lets out a quiet gasp, "held something back, regarding my time in Spain. You are entirely too free with the knowledge.”

“You did, you know?”

Aramis is lost in the feel of Porthos’ stubble scraping at his neck. “I did what?”

“You held something back. Or at least, we haven’t tried it.”

Aramis’ heart stutters. He can feel the sweat prickle up on the back of his neck. He knows exactly what Porthos is talking about, and yes, they’ve talked about it, but that’s as close as they’ve come.

He snatches at Porthos’ hand, pulling him towards the bedroom; Porthos stops and stands still at the end of the bed while Aramis strips him with careful, deliberate hands. Aramis takes Porthos’ face into his hands, kissing him like it might be his last chance, even though there are weeks yet before Porthos leaves.

“Sit there,” he says and gestures towards the headboard. Porthos settles himself there, his back resting against the sturdy wood, his cock thick and hard against his belly while Aramis strips himself and pulls the lube from the side table.

Aramis kneels in the center of the bed, facing Porthos and looking straight into his eyes. He doesn’t stop looking at Porthos as he drips the lube along his own fingers, spreads his knees apart and reaches behind himself. Porthos can see Aramis’ eyelids flutter as he presses his fingers into his own ass.

It seems like Aramis opens himself for hours, stretching and twisting his fingers, curling them inside himself and whimpering at the burn. Even with all the time he takes Aramis knows it isn’t quite enough, but that’s how he wants it. He doesn’t want to be stretched enough for this to not hurt. He wants to feel it even when Porthos is a thousand miles away. He wants to still feel every inch of Porthos’ cock when this bed is empty and cold.

Porthos’ eyes are huge and dark as he watches Aramis’ display. Aramis must have curled his fingers to tug at his own rim because his teeth come down on his own lower lip and his eyes open again and Porthos can see the question in them. Aramis is almost begging.

Porthos finds his voice. “C’mere, Aramis. Come on.”

Aramis crawls up to Porthos, his knees bracketing Porthos’ hips. “When I called home?  When I told you about Emilia the first time and you said you wanted a demonstration?  This is all I could think of. How your cock would feel so hot in my hand, how you’d push against me, how you’d feel so fucking real and so fucking good.”   

He takes Porthos’ cock in his hand and then he really does beg. “Please, Porthos. Please let me have it.”

“Go on then, gorgeous. Let’s see you take it.”

Aramis is glorious as he works himself down on to Porthos’ cock. Porthos’ fingers are tight on his hips, holding him still for just a second when he’s halfway down. “Wait,” he warns, his voice a pained grunt. “One second. Fuck. Fuck fuck. You’re so fucking tight.”   When he’s sure he’s not going to come immediately Porthos loosens his grip and looks up at Aramis, nodding for him to move again.

He looks back at Porthos and instead of working himself further, he raises up and then comes back down, stopping at the same place. He fucks himself to the same depth a few more times, until Porthos growls low in his throat. Aramis’ grin is filthy.

“Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

Aramis shrugs in a way that makes it clear he’s not even a little ashamed. Porthos’ fingers tighten on his hips again and Aramis can feel Porthos fucking up into him, deep and hard, and Aramis falls forward onto Porthos’ shoulder with a shout. Porthos strokes into him hard just a few more times before asking “You want to feel me fuck you?  Want to come on my cock?”

“Yes. Fucking god, yes.”

“Show me.”

And then Aramis is riding him, curling his hips against Porthos and feeling Porthos’ cock drag in and out. Porthos is big but with how little Aramis stretched himself, he feels huge. And just like Aramis hoped the first time he even dared imagine this, Porthos’ cock is so hot. It feels nothing like the silicone cocks Emilia used on him. He leans forward until his mouth is next to Porthos’ ear.

“Fuck, Porthos, you are so big. Fucking everywhere inside me. Nothing else is even close.”   

When Aramis feels himself getting closer he takes Porthos’ face in his hands again, kissing him slow and soft. His hips are a perfect match; rolling slowly against Porthos and taking that gorgeous cock as deep as it will go. Aramis kisses Porthos on the temple and whispers, “So glad it’s you." 

Porthos can feel Aramis losing control, his hips snapping now, his kisses desperate and sloppy. He reaches one hand down and curls his fingers around Aramis, his thumb pressing into the slit on the head of Aramis’ cock. “C’mon, gorgeous. Let’s see how you look when you come on my cock.”  

Aramis is lost. He chokes out an undignified grunt, and spills hot and wet over Porthos’ hand. Porthos keeps kissing him, sucking and biting at Aramis’ lower lip as he pulls Aramis’ hips into him hard. Less than a minute passes before Aramis hears Porthos groan his name and then Porthos wraps his arms around Aramis’ burying his face in Aramis’ chest as he comes. Aramis clings to him as Porthos’ breaths grow steady and even once more.

With a whine at the sudden emptiness, Aramis pulls himself off of Porthos’ lap and fetches a wet facecloth to clean them both. Porthos pulls Aramis back into his arms, throwing the sheet over them both and saying the words they’ve kept quiet for weeks. 

“I’m going to miss you when I’m gone.”

“I’m going to miss you more.” 

Porthos grins and settles his cheek against Aramis’ hair. “Probably."


	4. Twenty-one - Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte pulls him a pint, on the house, and asks him questions about training. Her flirting grows less subtle as the evening wears on but he still isn’t expecting her to lean across the bar and jerk her thumb towards Aramis and say, “This one keeps trying with me but I told him I’d only consider it if you’d taught him any of your tricks. So,” she takes a deep drink of Porthos’ stout and licks the foam from her lip. “Did you?”
> 
> Aramis’ voice is low and teasing. “My darling Charlotte, we’ve discussed this. A gentleman never tells.”
> 
> “Who’s calling me a gentleman?” Porthos cocks an eyebrow at Aramis and turns back to Charlotte. He takes one of her fingers between two of his and strokes at the pad with his nail. “He's right, though. I’m not telling tales.”
> 
> Charlotte sighs, sad and weary. “I guess you’ll just have to show me, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay, I spent the first two weeks of the months in the woods with unreliable power. I'm trying to make it up to you with this beast of a chapter. They'll probably never get this long again, but then I probably won't take nineteen days to update next time either. 
> 
> Two quick notes: Yes, the last chapter went up with the title "Twenty-one: Paris" and then I checked my timeline and realized I was off by a year. It's now "Twenty" and this one is "Twenty-one" and I swear someday we'll get out of Paris. Also, I've updated the tags to show under-negotiated kink because Porthos, baby, I love you, but you can't just spring that shit on someone.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to winterlive for listening to me whine and to ceeturnalia for everything.

There are still Christmas decorations up when Porthos leaves for Fontevraud to sign his enlistment paperwork. Aramis’ mother is distressingly maternal in her hugs and admonitions for him to write and keep in touch. She wraps her arms around him and says, “I will miss you terribly,” and Porthos is completely unsure how to react. She pats them both on the shoulder and says, “I will leave my boys to say their goodbyes.”

“Her boys?”

Aramis stares at him. How? How can Porthos have known her this long and not know he’s one of her boys? He can see Porthos’ throat bob and does them both the favor of changing the subject.  “Twelve weeks. You can do this.” 

“And then all the years after.” 

“First boots on the ground, remember? Sticking up for someone else. That’s why you’re doing this and it is the best of reasons, my friend.” 

Porthos buries his face in Aramis’ neck, his arms tight around Aramis’ chest. “Yes. Yes, I just… Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you, too. And when you come back I will still be here.”

 

With the week of paperwork and physicals that precedes FGI, Porthos is gone thirteen weeks total, and they feel like a strange time out of time for Aramis. He goes to work, goes to dinner with his parents, goes about his daily life, but in his heart everything is waiting. He doesn’t buy food for more than a couple of days at a time, he doesn’t make weekend plans. He would deny that he’s waiting for the phone to ring, but he finds he is taking the handset from room to room with him.

Porthos calls about a month after he leaves (thirty-two days, seven hours, says Aramis’ heart). If Aramis thought about it he’d say it feels like waking up from a long sleep. For now he isn’t thinking about it, he’s just happy to hear that gruff voice again.

They tell stories for an hour. Porthos talks about living in dorms, how unless those other guys have lived in a group home they should quit their griping about space and noise and privacy. Aramis tells tales of his favorite customers and how his parents are doing. They’re talking about finally moving back to Argentina after his father retires in a year or so. His mother has always missed home. 

They do not speak of what is harder to say. Aramis doesn’t mention how alone he knows he will feel without his parents and without Porthos. He doesn’t say that he feels like these days the world moves around him and he is standing still. It feels like he's holding his breath.  Porthos doesn’t talk about how he has to fight a smile every time they call his name for mail. He doesn’t say that the lewd postcards he gets from Aramis can brighten a day spent running with a heavy pack or doing drill after drill. 

At the bottom of the last pile of mail was a pale blue envelope addressed in Aramis’ mother’s soft loopy handwriting. Inside there was a birthday card, and a letter saying how he’d been missed and how she hoped he was taking care of himself. He smiled at the notion of her grabbing the nearest card to hand to send her wishes along. 

He tapes the birthday card to the inside of his locker; he tapes the postcards next to it. He laughs at the sight of them side by side like that and thinks that perhaps his home is not so far away after all.

 

By the time his train pulls out of Guer in mid-April Porthos’ fingers are calloused from rope courses, his dreams are of running, and he has started to view everything in terms of how he could climb over it in an obstacle course. He also feels strangely centered, his purpose defined. Where once there was a shaking confusion and uncertainty there is now a great stillness.

Aramis is waiting at the Gare Montparnasse when Porthos gets in. He has his hands shoved into the pockets of his pea coat, and he is facing opposite direction, giving Porthos a chance to take him all in: from the scuffed toes of his boots to his shaggy hair and the look on Aramis’ face as he scans the crowd. 

When Porthos was twelve he had been staking out a produce stall in a market, trying to decide if it was worth the trouble to try stealing anything. Between the artichokes and the broccoli there had been a little boy, no more than six, who had gotten separated from his mother. He had turned to Porthos and for a moment their eyes met. 

The boy and his mother hadn’t been separated long enough for the boy to grow frantic, but in his eyes there was the seed of that fear. What if his mother had left without him? What if she never found him? What if he was alone? His mother had come around the corner, scolding him for falling behind. She snatched him up in her arms, and the boy had buried his nose in her scarf and clung to her, and it all had a happy ending. But Porthos had never forgotten the look in the boy’s eyes.

It is the same look he sees now on Aramis’ face, his eyebrows drawing together and a question in his gaze.  Most other people on the platform are looking about as though they have lost someone. Aramis is searching the crowd as though he is lost and is waiting to be found. 

Porthos is nearly next to him and Aramis has not yet seen him. He is dying to touch him and can’t bear to see that look on his face any longer, so he has mercy on them both.

“You look like you know how to show a soldier a good time.” 

Aramis turns, finally, and sees him. He lets out a great whooping laugh and the hug they share is as fierce and strong as Porthos had hoped for.

 

It had been pointless to think that Aramis’ parents wouldn’t make a big deal of his return. Aramis’ mother would have preferred an actual grill, but for this  _asado_ she is putting her mother’s pans to good use, and their flat sings with the hissing sound of meat cooking on hot cast iron. She has almost finished setting the table when they come in, and Porthos lets her hold him as long as she wants.

Porthos and Aramis help carry the trays of meat to the table and Porthos is frankly staggered by the amount and variety. He turns a stunned look on Aramis who replies by bumping his shoulder against Porthos and grinning. “She made the  _chimichurri_ two days ago.”  He sees Porthos’ face tighten with emotion at the idea of her doing so much for him. He knows how hard it is for Porthos to accept that love, that effort, so he adds, "She said it was so the flavors would have time to blend.”  

Porthos remembers the last time he sat with her while she made it. She’d chopped the parsley and oregano with the largest knife he'd ever seen outside of the boucherie. “There are people who know the joy of a good  _chimichurri,”_ she'd said. “And then there are the people who use a food processor.”  To punctuate her sentiment she’d used one blow of the flat of the knife to turn garlic bulbs to paste, and Porthos was momentarily terrified she’d find out about every time he’d made pot noodle or tinned soup.

By the end of the meal Porthos is certain he will never be hungry again. He joins Aramis in doing the dishes, and by the time they are done there is just enough room in his belly for a square of dense cake drenched in  _dulce de leche._ He knows she stood and stirred it almost constantly for the last hour of cooking, and he hopes no one else sees the muscles in his jaw jumping as he tries not to be affected by the love she has put in to all of this.

Aramis must see because he announces it’s time for them to leave, that Porthos is about to fall asleep on his plate. Outside, Porthos stands and looks at the sky, at the few stars and the moon low on the horizon. “Drink?” he asks but Aramis shakes his head. 

“Not tonight. Don’t sulk, I want every second I can get with my best friend, but he's a better conversationalist when he's awake. Let me get you to a bed and when you’re awake again we’ll visit the bar and have a beer.”  His eyebrows dance. “We’ll show Charlotte your new look.”   The park is dark and quiet and for the entire rest of the walk to their flat neither of them says a word. It is perfect.

Back at the flat Aramis kisses Porthos soundly on the mouth and takes the bags of food from his hands. “To bed with you,” he says. Aramis knows it makes him a sappy fool, but once the meat is in the refrigerator he climbs into the bed next to Porthos. He tucks himself into the curve of an arm and fits his head under Porthos' chin. 

Porthos sleeps for fourteen hours, wakes to eat most of the leftovers from the asado and piss, and then goes back to sleep for another five. When he wakes again there is a note stuck to the fridge saying that Aramis is at work but will meet Porthos at the bar at half past seven.

 

Charlotte pulls him a pint, on the house, and asks him questions about training. Her flirting grows less subtle as the evening wears on but he still isn’t expecting her to lean across the bar and jerk her thumb towards Aramis and say, “This one keeps trying with me but I told him I’d only consider it if you’d taught him any of your tricks. So,” she takes a deep drink of Porthos’ stout and licks the foam from her lip. “Did you?”

Aramis’ voice is low and teasing. “My darling Charlotte, we’ve discussed this. A gentleman never tells.”

“Who’s calling me a gentleman?”  Porthos cocks an eyebrow at Aramis and turns back to Charlotte. He takes one of her fingers between two of his and strokes at the pad with his nail. “He's right, though. I’m not telling tales.”

Charlotte sighs, sad and weary. “I guess you’ll just have to show me, then.” 

Porthos’ pupils grow even larger in the dim light and Aramis chokes on his beer, coughing into his hand. They are both certain she’s joking so neither of them is sure how, two hours later, they find themselves in the hallway inside her front door as Charlotte drops her keys a bowl on the table and strips off her scarf and jacket. They’re still not sure even as they are all three naked on Charlotte’s bed and she is kissing each of them in turn.   

“You’re still a better kisser,” she tells Porthos and Aramis tugs her face back to his by her hair, determined.  He pulls away at last, kissing the corner of her mouth, nosing at her jaw, trailing his lips down her neck. “Better,” she sighs. Then she grabs his hair and pulls his head back and says, “Let me see just how good you are with that mouth.”

Aramis’ grin is a wicked challenge as he pulls her by the thighs until he can settle her hips over his mouth.

He and Porthos have talked about this; in the moments when they were bemoaning all the things they’d never get to do with Lucia. Aramis talked about how he loves the taste of a woman as she comes undone. Porthos said that he likes to hear the sounds, the cries and gasps. He likes the soft moan as he slides his fingers in alongside his tongue. He’d demonstrated on Aramis and when Aramis couldn’t hold back a little noise Porthos said, “There it is, that’s the one.”    

But for all that, it’s still a revelation to see Aramis at work. Porthos is propped on one elbow, lazily stroking himself with the other hand. He licks his palm and drags it over the head of his cock before circling his fist around himself again. When Charlotte looks his way he grins and winks at her. 

She is sitting astride Aramis’ face, gasping at his tongue. “You never taught him this, I’m sure.”

“No, he came by that one himself. Lovely Spanish girl.” 

“What about you? Were there any ladies to distract you while you were away?"

“‘Course, but none worth breaking curfew rules for. Ah, but one night there was this guy. So posh, he was. I expected him to come over all lord of the manor but instead he just gave way under me. I held his wrists to the bed and whispered to him how good he was for me and he just came apart. Begged me to fuck him. Opened right up and took it for me so easy.  And then when he came on my hand he licked it clean.” 

“Now you really are telling tales. You think this one would like it if I did that for him?"  

Aramis groans into her cunt and Charlotte shudders. 

“Do I think he’d like it if you ground yourself against his mouth until you drenched him in your come and then held him to the bed while you rode him? Do I think he’d come out of his skin if you put your fingers around his wrists and told him not to move while you fuck yourself on him?”

Aramis is curling his toes now, his fingers digging into the meat of Charlotte’s thighs. They can hear his breath coming hot and fast against her clit.

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “I think he’d like that just fine.” 

Charlotte sits up straight, looks down and meets Aramis’ eyes and says, “Let me feel your tongue fucking me. Make me come like that and I’ll ride your cock until you beg me to let you come.”    She reaches down to rub her own clit and not two minutes pass before she is biting her lips to stifle her cries and Aramis is licking the come as it drips from her. 

She pulls his hands from her thighs and slides herself down his chest while she presses his hands up over his head. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”   She circles his wrists with her hands, pinning them to the sheets.   

Charlotte jerks her chin in the direction of the nightstand. “There are condoms in there. You mind?” 

Porthos gets one, tears it open, and rolls it down Aramis’ cock with one hand. The circle of his fingers is tighter than it needs to be because he wants to hear the groan Aramis will let out when he feels them slide down. Porthos is not disappointed. 

Charlotte bites at one of Aramis’ nipples to get his attention back, and he gasps. “Don’t you come before I do,” she says. “Don’t you dare.”  She sheaths herself around him in one dragging slide. 

She rolls her hips against him, searching for the right angle. Once she finds it she rocks, slides, strokes until she is gasping, but as she does her hands inch bit by bit down Aramis’ arms until she is just bracing herself against his elbows. He tries to move his hands and she snatches his wrists again, pushing them against the bed. But in the struggle she has lost the friction of her clit against his skin and she groans, frustrated. 

Porthos’ voice almost startles her.  “Here,” he says, “let me.”   He wraps one broad hand around both of Aramis’ wrists and pins them firmly to the sheets. Charlotte braces her hands against Aramis’ chest, raking her fingernails across his nipples as she sighs, finding that perfect angle again. 

He is looking directly into Aramis’ eyes so Porthos can see the point at which the wet heat of her pussy, the sting of her nails, and the look on his own face begins to break Aramis. He can hear as Aramis’ breaths grow shorter and see when the tendons begin to stand out on his neck.

“Now now. You heard the lady.”  The next words are a low growl. “Don’t you dare."

Aramis tries to shift his hands and Porthos tightens his grip until he can feel the bones rubbing in Aramis’ wrists.  That sharp burst of pain takes Aramis back from the edge and he closes his eyes. If he keeps looking at Porthos he will come for certain.

Charlotte’s hips are rocking against Aramis faster now. She’s close, they can tell. Porthos meets her eyes. “He’s trying so hard to be good for you,” he says. Her face tightens in a rictus of pleasure and she curls in on herself as she comes. Porthos bends his head and takes Aramis’ mouth in a deep kiss. “Come on now,” he tells Aramis, and Aramis stares into his eyes as he goes over the edge with a strangled sigh. 

When Charlotte collapses to the bed next to Aramis, Porthos climbs over him and settles himself above her. “Ready?”  he asks and her “Yes” is a hiss as she drops her legs open for him. 

Porthos slicks the condom onto his cock and has to bite down on his lip as he fucks into her. God she’s so fucking wet. He buries himself in her and she draws him in deep with her heels on his ass. 

She looks up at him, her hands over her own breasts, and says, “Did you like that? Like taking him down with me?” 

Before she can finish her bawdy laugh Porthos has his hand under her jaw, his middle finger on one corner of her jawbone and his thumb on the other and his hand resting on her throat. He isn’t pressing down, and his grip is all the more powerful for its restraint.

“Shhhhh,” he whispers in her ear and when she quiets he says, “That’s a girl.”   He tilts her head until he is looking in her eyes. “Safe to say I liked it all, sweetheart. But what I want now is for you to be quiet, like a good girl, while I remind you which one of us has all the tricks." 

Charlotte’s next breath is a sobbing gasp and she is coming around Porthos’ cock before he can even begin stroking into her.  As her orgasm subsides slightly he makes to move his hand and she shakes her head, holding his hand still with one of her own.  He takes her meaning and presses his thumb and finger just a bit under her jaw until her head tilts up and back into the pillow.

She comes again just before he does, spasming around him, her broken moans in his ear. He bends to kiss her as he comes and she winds her arms around his neck, clinging to him until they are both still. 

Aramis kisses them both. He strokes Charlotte’s hair back from her face, kissing her forehead. He grips Porthos’ arm and kisses the curve of his shoulder, pressing his nose into the skin there and just breathing Porthos in. 

There is a bustle of tying off condoms, using the toilet, Charlotte brushing her teeth, and then there is nothing but the three of them tangled together in sleep.

 

Aramis goes with Porthos to the train station at the end of the week. The great glass windows are sparkling in the morning sun and Aramis hums a bit of “April in Paris” and thinks ‘what have you done to my heart, indeed’ because this time he’s not sure he can do it.

He knows this must be how Porthos felt when he left for seminary. The uncertain stretch of time in front of them without each other. But as much as he needed seminary, Porthos needs this. Already, after only three months, he stands taller. Certainly six months ago he wouldn’t have turned to Aramis as he does now and said, “I know you. You’re gonna mope about. Don’t do that, please? For me?” 

Aramis promises and then draws Porthos to him, burying his nose in Porthos’ neck. 

Porthos cups the back of his head, kissing his hair, his cheek. “I love you. Don’t forget that.”

Aramis bunches Porthos’ coat in his fists as he clings. “I love you, too, my brother.” 

Porthos turns as he walks away, “And stop sending me dirty post cards, yeah? I’m half sure the mail office wanks over them before I get them.” 

“I’ll stop,” Aramis says.

He won’t. But he knows Porthos doesn’t really want him to.

  

Aramis tries to keep his promise but even so he does mope for a few days. He gets a little sad washing up Porthos’ tea mug from their last morning. He gets a little sad when he sees the bruises on his own hips from where Porthos held him down on the couch, sucking him to a shouting orgasm on their last night. And when it comes time to change the sheets for the first time since Porthos left Aramis just sits down on the edge of the bed, his face in the pillow he has clutched to his chest, and sucks in deep breaths of their mingled scents until his chest loosens. 

Porthos calls in early June to say that he is almost ready to start his first permanent posting. In a year he will petition to transfer into his dream regiment, but until then he has a slot in with a unit of mountain troops starting in mid-July. The terrain will be unlike anything he’s used to and Porthos can barely keep the excitement out of his voice. He isn’t sure how leave is figured, but he promises he will try to be home for Christmas.  After they hang up Aramis holds the phone to his forehead and tries to will himself into happiness, for Porthos’ sake. 

Aramis is so glad that Porthos is doing this, is so proud, but in the quiet solitude of his room he lets a small selfish part of himself wish that Porthos were still here. When the shadows grow long across the bedroom floor he picks up the phone again, calls his parents, and invites himself to dinner. 

 

Claire comes into Aramis’ life with the warm breezes of summer, both of them smelling of honeysuckle and loamy garden soil.  He meets her one Friday in the fromagerie in his parents’ neighborhood. He’s determined not to show up empty-handed to dinner. She compliments his choice. It has been a long day and Aramis doesn’t have it in him to indulge in coy flattery so he only smiles. When she says she likes that cheese best with fruit, her choice would be a soft red pear, he knows she doesn’t have it in her either. 

“I know where such a thing could be had,” he says. "If I were to have both of them available tomorrow evening, could I convince you to join me?” 

She smiles, broad and open and his heart stops. 

His mother knows he’s distracted but she assumes it’s still the same lack of focus he’s had since Porthos left. She squeezes his hand and sends him home with all the rest of the stew, a huge chunk of the bread, and half of the last of the season’s asparagus. He and Porthos used to take turns cooking, he thinks. He remembers that tomorrow night he’ll be eating with Claire and he smiles again. 

She is waiting for him by the lake in the park the next evening. The tree she’s sitting under is not the one where he first kissed Porthos and for that he is deeply grateful. Aramis has a blanket draped over his arm; he shakes it out on the ground and takes a seat. He’s not standing on ceremony. Neither is she, it seems. She sits opposite him, her feet tucked up to the side, and watches as he opens the drawstring bag and pulls out fruit, the  _vendéen bichonné_ and a sharp knife. He’s brought the rest of the leftovers as well. The thought of sitting alone in the kitchen eating them was just too much.

He asks her questions about herself, paring off slices of cheese and fruit and passing them to her from his fingers. Perhaps there ought to have been complicated serving utensils, but Claire didn’t seem like the type, and Aramis certainly isn’t. 

She lives in the neighborhood, has for years. She knows his parents, in casual passing. Claire speaks fondly of his mother, she is always kind to the shopkeepers and that says a lot about her. She says he has his mother’s eyes and he stops to stare at her and smile. He does, actually, and no one outside his family has ever remarked on it.

Claire sees his wistful smile and strokes his knee. He could love her. He suspected that from her smile, but now he is sure.

They dip crusty bread into the stew and trade information then. She gives, “My family is huge and there is always noise so I’ve learned to treasure silence” in exchange for his, “The first time I came to this park is the first time I ever felt like Paris was home.”   She offers, “I’ve never wanted a big life. I want tea and a book in a chair by the window, and enough money to keep all the bills paid and travel a little.”    He counters with, “I go to church but I never believe in God more than when my mother cooks for me.”   Claire laughs and says that if the rest of her cooking is half as good as the stew she’s reaffirmed Claire’s faith as well.

“I worried, after I left seminary, that I would never find the closeness with God that I was looking for.”   He tears at a blade of grass and she sits quietly and listens.  “Now I know better. I know that small things, quiet places, my best friend’s laugh, my mother’s cooking, these are the closest I’ve ever felt. I want a God of small miracles.” 

Claire digs her toes into the grass and dirt. “When I first held my son I wondered how I could still feel my heart beating in my chest now that it lived outside my body and slept in my arms.”

They talk about their joys. He talks about his parents. He talks about Porthos. "I want him to fall in love, get married, grow old with some amazing woman. I want to be the indulgent uncle to all of his loud, happy children."

She talks about working with her hands. She loves the curl of silver wire when she twists it into jewelry and the glow of glass in a hot kiln. She lives for the smell of her garden when the first shoots of peas are coming up.  When she talks about her passions her hands start to fly, mimicking the actions as she describes them.  

He sees a life with her stretching out in front of him. She has found the junction of adventure and security that he has never believed existed before now. With her there would always be something new to learn, always passion. He could learn to love a life with a job rather than a calling if he came home from that job to her. He could have a chair next to hers in that window, a book and tea of his own. All of this is unfolding in front of him and a buzzing fills his ears, when it clears she’s describing glass working. 

“- it’s bright colors and fire and I can’t resist when those come together.”  She looks at him then and sees his eyes on her, must see the burning in them. “I would really like to kiss you,” she says.

She comes up on her knees and leans towards him. Her lips have the salty taste of the cheese but her tongue tastes of sweet pear. Her thumb strokes along his jaw and curls into the hair behind his ear. He puts one hand on her waist to brace her as he leans into the kiss. 

Claire pulls back and smiles at him. For a few seconds she says nothing but then she tilts her head a little bites at her lower lip. Not shy, he realizes, just thinking. 

“Come home with me?” 

“Yes.”

“Bring the stew.”

He laughs and takes her hand as she leads him out of the park.

 

Claire makes love in a perfect harmony of sacred and ordinary. When he tries to lead her to the couch in a rush she drags him to the bedroom instead. “I spent too much money on those sheets to waste my time getting friction burns from that couch.”   He worries for a moment that he is in for a night of boring sex, that he’ll end up sneaking out the front door in the morning rather than risk a second round in the daylight. He worries he will have to find a new cheese shop.

His fears last until the moment she begins to unbutton her blouse, and he sees the smile on her face. Claire is having _fun_ and he loves that. She strips herself, and then helps him along with the last of his clothes. She stretches herself out on the bed and tugs his hand until he is above her. She runs her hands along his body, along his ribs, over his shoulders, she pulls him down until his body is dragging along hers and she grins as his leg hair tickles her thighs.

Sex with Claire is absolutely free of artifice. When Aramis reaches a hand down to stroke her he gives a few experimental touches, prepared to watch her face and listen to her breaths to see what she likes. Instead she grabs his hand, sucks the middle and index finger into her mouth and then slides them into herself saying, “I like these two right… here.”  She puts his fingers exactly where she wants them and presses the heel of his hand against her mons and then lets out a pleased sigh to say she has him just where she wants him.

She is gorgeous as she comes apart under his hand, not trying to hold back her sounds, not playing them up to stroke his ego. When he moves his hand too far to the left, she puts it right back where it started. He can feel her growing slightly tighter around his fingers, can hear her breathing change a bit, and he expects her to fall over the edge at any second. He does _not_ expect her to pull his hand away from her and say, “Condom. Condom now. I want to feel you inside me when I come.”   

Claire pulls him on top of her, slotting him between her legs, and exhales a satisfied groan as he sinks into her. Aramis had forgotten how good it could feel to be on top like this. He has one forearm braced on the bed and she has taken his other hand and brought it to her breast. “Pinch them,” she says. “Just lightly.”  He does and thrills at the feel of her clenching around his cock.

She clutches at his hips, pulling him into her, down along her, until the angle is perfect and she is crying out with every thrust. He kisses her throat and she pushes his head down until his mouth is on her breast. “Suck it,” she says, and he complies. The uncomplicated pleasure of knowing that if she wants something she will ask for it is something he hadn’t expected. Claire is not a guessing game; she isn’t testing him or his prowess. When she says, “Now bite,” she means it and when he does she cries out. 

He fucks his hips into her, steady and as regular as he can. She says, “Yes, just like that, good,” and it’s all the motivation he needs to keep going. When she mutters “So close, so close,” into his hair as he licks and sucks at her nipple he wants to help so he pulls back and asks what she needs. 

Claire pulls his free hand until it is cupping the side of her breast, until he can feel the heft of it in his palm. She pulls at his wrist until his hand is a few inches away from her skin and then brings it back with a sharp smack and hisses in pleasure. Aramis strikes gently again and again while he sucks at her other breast.  Claire’s fingers dig at his scalp as she tips over, clenching and coming and saying “Thank you, thank you, thank you” as she spasms around him.

As he watches her come down from the high he strokes the pinked skin on he side of her breast and thrusts, slow and hard. Her fingernails in his back are the last straw and he comes with a startled shout, his forehead against her collarbone and her hands soothing the sting on his back.  She takes his face in her palms and kisses him, close-mouthed. “You,” she says, “are perfect.”

 

In the morning he is his usual polite, deferential self. He makes obvious motions towards leaving in hopes that she will tell him to stay. She says breakfast is almost ready and could he butter the toast and put it on the plates, and that is all the invitation he needs. As he is carrying the plates to the table, heavy with eggs and fresh raspberries, he stops to look at a picture hung on the wall just outside the kitchen of three people on long, narrow strip of beach.

The woman is Claire. She is wearing an enormous straw hat to shield herself from the sun, and a red bikini. The man to her left is dark-skinned, dark-eyed, and flashing a staggeringly bright smile. Between them is a small boy, six or seven perhaps, to whom they are both clinging. The boy has Claire’s eyes and nose but the man’s hair and smile and they are clearly besotted with him.

Claire sees him looking and says, “My son, Josef. We took that last year in Eze. It was a fun trip, though this year he wants to go skiing instead.” 

Aramis is terrified. At any moment the boy could come barreling out of one of the closed doors along the hallway and begin to question who this strange man is with his mother. And god, how much noise  _did_  they make last night? Claire sees his face and laughs. “He is with his father this weekend, you’re safe.”  She doesn’t say that if Josef were home, Aramis would never have been invited. She is selective to the point of exclusion about whom she introduces to her son. 

He calculates the timeline in his head and says, “I am sorry about your separation.”  

“Don’t be,” she waves her fork dismissively. “It was half a decade ago and it was the best decision either of us ever made, aside from having Josef.”  Aramis looks at the photo, confused, and she explains: “We were smart enough to separate before things were too bad, too angry. Dominic is a friend, still. Not the best, but a week each year with him and our favorite person is no hardship. It reminds Josef that we are his family, that how much we love him is more powerful than anything else.” 

Claire’s brows draw together in a little frown. “And, to be honest, I think Dominic is the finest version of himself when he is around me. His life is not always the most stable, the most reliable. Josef deserves to see him at his best.”   She shakes her shoulders, casting off the heavy mood, and turns a sincere, bright smile on him. “I hope you realize that I am keeping the rest of the leftovers. You can pick up the container Wednesday night, Josef is having dinner with Dominic.” 

Her goodbye kiss to him that afternoon is deep and sweet; she says she had a wonderful time. He knows she means it and so he squeezes her hand and tries to convey how true his words are when he says, “This was the best day I’ve had in months.”   He can see the newspaper scattered across her couch, can see their empty tea mugs on the counter, and hopes she knows he is glad he will be coming back. 

“Wednesday night,” she says, returning the squeeze. “I will cook, you bring the wine.”

  

The table is already set and dinner is waiting when he arrives. A few days a week he works as a host in a small Italian family restaurant and he is still dressed for work. His sharply ironed shirt is unbuttoned at the neck, his blood-red tie loose and his throat exposed.  Claire’s eyes have gone wide. “Well, clearly I need to address this situation,” she says. She grabs him by the tie and pulls him into the flat. He hears the door slam shut as her fingers open his trousers. He is not quite hard as she reaches down and pulls his cock out through the fly of his boxers, but he is after finishes stroking him twice then pushing him to the sofa.

 When she straddles him, her knees on either side of his hips, he raises his eyebrows in question. “I thought you were against fucking on the couch.”

“I was against fucking on the couch _then_. I make it a point never to fuck any way I don’t want to. And right now I want to fuck you on this couch.”   She fishes the strip of condoms from his back pocket and grins. “A man of bold ambitions, I see.”   She tears one off, slicking it down over him, then pulls the crotch of her panties aside and spreads her own wetness over herself before sliding down over him. 

His fingers clutch at her hips and he can feel her rubbing herself, rocking against him. It’s over within minutes and for all he loves a nice drawn-out emotional fuck, it’s been so long since he’s had a quickie that he’s forgotten how good they can be.  She pulls her hand back, lets him clean her fingers off with his mouth, and then stands up again, adjusting her panties and her skirt back into place. “Come on,” she says. “I’m willing to bet the carbonara will be delicious cold as well as hot.” 

 

After that evening Aramis works with his manager at the bar to have Wednesday nights off. He knows which weekends Josef is away and for most of them Aramis is with Claire.

They picnic in the park; they go to see silly romantic comedies because Claire can’t be bothered to be embarrassed about loving them. And after a couple of months they have dinner with his parents.

His parents adore Claire. The feeling is mutual. While doing the dishes Aramis tells his mother that it’s complicated, she has a son, she’s cautious. His mother says that only complicates things as much as they let it. She says he should keep trying because Claire is a good woman and her boy is probably a good boy and that neither Aramis nor Porthos seem to be in any hurry to give her grandchildren in a more traditional way, so she’ll take what she can get. Aramis drops a casserole dish on his foot and swears, but reassures Claire he is fine when she calls from the other room to ask if he’s all right. 

In the autumn they forgo picnics in the park for laying a blanket out on her lounge floor and reading to each other while they pick at bread and cheese and pickled vegetables. “My mother used to make the most incredible pickled carrots,” she says. “You could see whole sprigs of dill and cloves of garlic in the jars.”

“I love you,” he says, the first time either of them has said it. 

“And I love you.”  She smears brie on a heel of bread. “Maybe I’ll give your mother that pickled carrot recipe.”

It is as simple as that.

 

When winter comes Claire helps him shop for Christmas presents for his mother and father. With every day that goes by that he doesn’t hear from Porthos about coming home for the holiday she reassures him that he still has a brother, that even if he doesn’t make it home they’ll be sure to call him, and more than once she sucks him off because that’s still the best way to distract a man Aramis’ age. 

The phone finally rings a week before Christmas and Porthos says that yes it’s official, yes he can come home, yes he misses them terribly, yes yes. Aramis’ parents buy him a ticket on the TGV so he can be there in four hours instead of the eight the overnight train takes.  Porthos thinks it’s a Christmas present. Seven years, almost, and he still doesn’t realize.

 

The Aramis who meets Porthos at the Gare de Lyon is not the one who met him at Montparnasse in April. He’s growing in a goatee, his hair is longer, and he is cheerfully people-watching and waiting for Porthos to meet him at their designated spot. He is not lost. Somehow in the nine months since Porthos last saw him, he has been found. Porthos wonders who found Aramis while Porthos was in the mountains learning to dig a shelter in the snow, and holding Aramis’ dirty postcards with numb fingers.

Aramis pulls Porthos to him, his fingers digging into Porthos’ shoulders. He takes Porthos’ head in his hands and says, “Let me see you. Your hair is even shorter, how is that possible?” 

“I’m still me,” Porthos says, but he’s smiling as he grumbles. It is the longest they’ve ever gone without seeing each other and Porthos feels his throat getting tight. 

“Yes,” Aramis says. “You are still you.”  He rests his forehead against Porthos’ and then kisses him short and fierce.  “Come on, before the old hens begin to cluck at us." 

 

Aramis’ mother meets them at their flat; she leaves them with warm soup and fresh bread and orders to come over for breakfast in the morning after they’ve rested. After she leaves Aramis clears his throat and Porthos thinks he can’t remember the last time he saw Aramis nervous.

“About Christmas. I know the plan is to spend the night before with my parents, to be with them on the day, to spend time together. But the day after, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to meet Claire."

Oh. Oh, Porthos thinks. This is who found him.  He has listened to Aramis talk about Claire for months but never the way he is now. Aramis says Boxing Day is on a Wednesday, she and Aramis usually have dinner on Wednesdays anyway. Porthos says he would love to.  

Before then he will enjoy every minute of his time with Aramis, just the two of them. He suspects that the look on Aramis’ face means that it may never just be the two of them again.  Somehow he never expected, for all the times Aramis wandered away, that Aramis would ever stay gone. It hurts more than he would have imagined.

 

Porthos and Aramis go to midnight mass on Christmas Eve. They sing familiar carols and enjoy the walk home in the clear, cold air.  Aramis’ mother has left a nest of blankets on the floor in her studio and a pile of bedding on the sofa. Porthos stares, unsure, at the folded sheets and blankets until Aramis leads him by the shoulders to the makeshift bed down the hall. They both change into sweatpants and long-sleeved shirts; it’s far too chilly in the flat to think about less.

He is sure he will fall sleep almost immediately, the last nine months are catching up with him fast and he is so tired. Instead, when the lights go out Porthos stares at the ceiling and listens to Aramis’ breathing become shallow and even. He can feel the warmth of Aramis all along his right side; his fingers itch to reach out. Porthos knows, even if Aramis doesn’t, that Aramis might spend his life with Claire. He won’t jeopardize that for Aramis, but he can’t resist the lure of the sheer physical contact he’s been craving. 

There have been one-night stands with girls and boys in town, with backpacking Australians out to see the Alps, and a few mutual hand jobs while on a weekend liberty to Turin with another new recruit, both of them thirsty for touch more than orgasms. But none of those hold the simple joy, the rightness he feels just rolling to his side and gathering Aramis against him. Aramis sighs in his sleep and relaxes against Porthos. “Merry Christmas,” Porthos whispers and kisses his hair. He thinks of how much he will miss this, and lets the rhythm of Aramis’ breathing send him to sleep.

 

When Porthos wakes, the rest of them are gone. There’s a note on the coffee pot saying that they are at the early mass and will probably be back before he is up, but if not he should preheat the oven and take the duck out of the refrigerator. He tries not to remember his years spent being distrusted, feared, on his own. He’s not sure why a family as good as this one has trusted him in their home while they are away, let alone why he is an honored guest for _Christmas._

After they get home from mass they light a fire in the fireplace and exchange gifts. Porthos gives Aramis’ mother a music box he found for her in a small town at the bottom of the mountain. To his father Porthos gives a pair of gloves made of buttery-soft calfskin, handsewn by one of the oldest glove-makers in Grenoble. He hugs Porthos and promises he will practice taking them off in a suitably terrifying manner so that he can properly cow his peers at board meetings. 

Porthos struggled with Aramis’ gift, but from the shine in Aramis’ eyes when he sees the intricately carved rosary Porthos picked out in Turin, he knows he did well. Aramis has given Porthos a jersey from the rugby team close to his base. Porthos has become a fan since he arrived and Aramis loves to hear his excited recaps of the games. 

His parents give Aramis a pile of his favorite movies and an exceptionally ugly shirt. Aramis raves about it awkwardly and Porthos sees a twinkle in Aramis' mother’s eye before she says, “Oh, I’m so glad. I look forward to seeing you in it!”   

The joke is on Porthos because they’ve bought him the same shirt. He is certain they’ve done this just to watch both boys squirm and in the midst of being awed at their machinations he stops to be overwhelmed that he’s been included in their family prank.   

Aramis’ father has given Porthos a jacket which is deceptively thin and surely made of some unpronounceable fiber that will keep him warm and dry and thankful all winter. In addition there is a book on the history of the Côte d’Ivoire, and at Porthos’ curious look Mathieu says, “I know you like to teach yourself things, and I thought this might be something you wanted to learn."  Aramis must have told them about his mother, about her history, and now they are helping him know more of her, helping him keep her close. 

He is nearly overwhelmed at the book but when he opens the box from Aramis’ mother he stops trying to hold back at all. She has given him a framed miniature, an exquisitely detailed pen and ink drawing of him and Aramis at the ages they were when they first met.   Porthos is grinning at Aramis. Aramis is laughing. “To me,” she says, “you will always be those boys.”  She assures him that the frame is sturdy, the glass is plexiglass and he should be able to take it with him whenever he wants. She gathers him to her when she sees he’s crying and she holds him until he stops. No one comments on how long that takes. 

The duck is incredible and naturally they are sent off with the leftovers. At the door Porthos stops and turns to Aramis’ mother. “Earlier tonight I thought I should be sure to remember to thank you for including me in your family holiday. But…” he looks down to the gifts in his hands, the gifts that are in addition to the train ticket home, in addition to the calling cards they send him so he can talk to Aramis, in addition to so much. 

Carolina smiles and strokes his cheek with her palm. “You are such a smart boy, how has it taken you so long to know how foolish that would be? Of course you are here for the family holiday.”  She saves him from more tears by pinching his cheek until he groans, and laughing as he ducks away. The walk back to their flat through the park with Aramis is so familiar now, but Porthos still soaks up every minute. 

They fall asleep on the couch watching movies and Porthos startles awake at three in the morning to find Aramis curled into his side, his nose buried in Porthos’ chest. Porthos knows his neck will be nearly immobile the next day but he can’t bear to shift them. He gropes for his jacket where it is thrown over the arm of the couch and shoves it under his head as a makeshift pillow. He remembers stroking his fingers over Aramis’ shoulder and then he doesn’t remember anything else until the sun wakes them both.

 

Meeting Claire is, to Porthos’ complete lack of surprise, utterly delightful. Of course she is amazing, Aramis wouldn’t love her otherwise. She takes their coats at the door, hugs Porthos and kisses him on both cheeks and says she’s excited to meet him after everything Aramis has said. “Excited,” she says. Not “pleased” or “thrilled” or “honored.”   Those might be polite pleasantries but he knows from her face that she really has been looking forward to this. Porthos doesn’t want to consider what stories Aramis has told her. 

He spots the same family photograph that Aramis did, and Aramis explains quickly who they all are. He wonders if Aramis knows how much Josef looks like Porthos did at that age. Porthos can see all the ways that they are different, and he wonders if Aramis sees how they are the same.   

Aramis spends the dinner telling Claire stories of all the filthy postcards he’s sent Porthos. He tells her about their misspent days before Aramis left for seminary. Her laugh is happy and honest, and Porthos finds he’s more than a little enamored of her himself.    

He looks around at the flat and sees that her life has the kind of stability he has always craved, that Aramis has always known.  She is good for Aramis. She is not his mother, wouldn’t want to be, but Claire has shown Aramis that it is possible to have security and roots without losing any spark. Without becoming someone Porthos wouldn’t want to have dinner with. 

Aramis doesn’t see it, but Porthos knows this dinner for what it is; a farewell to that part of their lives. He will miss that intimacy with Aramis terribly, but he can imagine no one more worthy to have it instead than Claire. When he looks at her, Claire is staring back at him and for the first time all night Porthos can’t read what’s on her face. Her expression is shuttered and around her fork her knuckles are white. 

Before his eyes can flick back up to her face, Claire is smiling again and asking about Aramis as a teenager; for the rest of the evening there is only the companionable sharing of stories and laughter.    

Claire shoos them out the door, saying that she’ll do the dishes herself, Josef will be home shortly and she wants to hear about how his evening was with his father. Aramis kisses her and Porthos hugs her and says he had a wonderful time. Aramis says, “We should do it again the next time you’re home!”   Porthos agrees, Claire only smiles and says nothing. Aramis doesn’t notice. 

For the walk home Aramis grills him about how he liked Claire. It’s an easy conversation because Porthos liked her very much, it’s what made the evening both so easy and so hard. He says he loves that Claire never met a passion she wouldn’t pursue, that she isn’t afraid to be silly, that she loves her son so much. Porthos likes that Claire isn’t afraid to ask for what she wants and he tells Aramis so. Aramis smiles and Porthos thinks if this were any other woman he would be hearing about just how much Claire asks for what she wants; that he isn’t speaks volumes about how Aramis feels about Claire.

 

In the very few days before Porthos goes back he spends every minute he can with Aramis and the rest he spends reading, or curled in Aramis’ bed, sleeping. The night before he leaves they get stupidly drunk and Aramis calls Claire from a pay phone in the bar to tell her how much he loves her.  She laughs at them both and says would serve him right if she called him when her alarm went off at seven. “I know. I’m terrible. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Porthos can hear her say and he yells to Aramis over the noise of the bar, "Everyone loves Aramis!”   She reminds them to take a pain killer and have some water before bed and tells them she’s grateful she won’t have to deal with their sorry asses.

 On Sunday, at the station Aramis says, “I love you, come back safe.” 

“I love you, too. Tell Claire to take care of you.” 

Aramis hugs him and says, “No one will ever do it like you.”   Porthos considers his hangover, the coming train ride, the years ahead, and allows himself the luxury of not even thinking about what Aramis has said.  He just holds Aramis until it is time for the train to leave and presses his fingers to the window until the station disappears in the distance.

 

It is a rainy Saturday in February when Aramis looks up from his book and realizes that he is having the day he dreamed of when he first met Claire. His chair is next to hers under the window. He has a mug of milky tea on the table beside him and they are each reading their own books. He feels like the glow of pleasure in his chest can be seen for miles. 

Claire is curled in her own chair, the skirt she put on for brunch is riding up her thighs and Aramis can’t help himself. Never taking his eyes from his book he reaches one hand over and idly strokes his fingers along her inner thigh. After a minute she shifts and as he starts to take his hand back he realizes she has spread her legs a little. His hand strokes higher, brushing at the crease of her hip and slowly coming down to toy at the lace along the edge of her panties. She drops her leg, opening her thighs wider, never stopping her reading. 

By the time he remembers to turn the page Aramis has his fingers buried in her pussy, the ball of his hand stroking over her clit and he is watching her chew at her lower lip, struggling to keep her eyes on the page. 

“Aramis.” Her voice is chiding. “I am _trying_  to _read._ ” 

“I’m sorry, I assumed the book wasn’t that interesting once you let me do this,” and he curls his fingers, spreading them a little so she can feel the stretch. 

“If you insist on distracting me, at least give it your all,” she says and hitches her hips lower, her ass coming to rest at the edge of the chair and her skirt up around her waist.  Aramis pulls her panties down until they are hanging off one ankle. He could take them all the way off but he likes the look of them there, as though he is servicing her and when he’s done he’ll just slide them back on. 

He licks at her then, fucking her with his fingers and listening to her directions about where, how fast, and how hard.   She has her hand fisted in his hair and she is riding his tongue, feeling it drag over her clit.  With the hand not buried in her cunt he is pressing against his own erection, rolling his hips against himself with the same rhythm she is rolling against his face. He comes not long after she does, moaning his orgasm into her aftershocks and feeling her thighs tight against his ears. 

Aramis wipes his mouth with the hem of his t-shirt and sits back on his heels. Claire arches an eyebrow at him. “Are you quite finished? Because I have a book on silversmithing I’m trying to get through.”   Her face is mischievous and suddenly he is struck by a fierce wave of love for her.

“Claire, is there nothing you can’t do? My love, I could marry you this instant.” 

Claire’s laugh is a startled bark. “No, you couldn’t.” 

He feels the tone turn as she speaks. “I’m sorry?” 

“You couldn’t. And I wouldn’t."

Aramis drags himself back into his chair and tries to parse what she has just said. When he speaks his voice is brittle and formal. “What, if I may ask, brings you to that conclusion?”

“Aramis, you are not made for that life.” 

His face is hot and cold, his skin is crawling and his fingers are numb. There is no floor under his feet. 

“I don’t…” 

“I haven’t ever told you why Dominic and I separated.” 

“No.” 

“Dominic loved me, some part of him still does, but I could see that it would only ever be a part. Perhaps at times it would be such a large part that it seemed he loved me with his whole heart, but only ever a part. And I knew then that I would be happiest with someone who never wanted to fall in love again unless it was with me over and over.”  She shifts until she is staring at the photo on the wall and continues. 

“I spent so many years, Aramis, so _many_  years taking whatever was offered to me and now I only accept what I truly want. If I marry again it will be to someone who only denies me the part of themselves they have devoted to our children. There are people in this world that can be in love with many people at the same time, but Aramis, I am not one of them. And I can’t spend the rest of my life with someone who is.” 

“Claire, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  Aramis can feel the blood thump in his cheeks.

“I sat in this room with you, I was here for that dinner. I know you love me but please don’t tell me you’re not also in love with him.”

“With _who_?”

“With Porthos, Aramis.”  He starts to speak and she holds up her hand. “No. I know what I saw, you are in love with him and he is in love with you. The way you look at each other...” 

Aramis can feel his heart hammering against the inside of his ribcage. He can feel himself in some kind of terrible free fall. He tries to clutch at the cliff as he says “You’re wrong, Claire. I love him, yes. Absolutely. He is my best friend. But I am not in love with him. And he is not in love with me.” 

His fingers dig into the arms of the chair as he maps it out for her. “Porthos has an amazing future. He gives of himself so much, and when he is ready to take a break from saving the world some very lucky woman will give him all the joy he deserves and I will buy their children loud musical instruments for Christmas. We will always love each other because we are brothers; we are family, but not… Claire, my future is with you!  Only you." 

Tears are tracking down her face as she turns back to him. “I know you believe that, but I also know that in five years, ten at most, you will see that you are not made to keep all your heart with just one person.  And I won’t let me and my son be victims of that moment.

“Aramis, I’m going to… I don’t know how to say this. I love you very much but you deserve better than someone who will keep you from a part of your heart and I deserve better than someone who has left part of his heart with someone else. I love you very much and you are hurting right now and I am so sorry, so sorry for that, but you have to know that our future is not forever.” 

Thank god they aren’t touching right now, aren’t holding hands. Aramis can’t imagine how much harder that would have been to hear with her soft fingers wrapped in his. This is how he felt leaving seminary, as though all the things he’d taken for granted, all the constants in his life had been stripped away and he was left with only a terrifying uncertainty. Now, like then, he knows only the concrete, tangible things. The chair is cool and rough under his fingers. Between his shoulder blades he is sweating through his t-shirt.  His life with Claire is over. 

“I… I think it’s best if it is over now, then.”  It is the hardest thing he has ever said. “I don’t think I could… You deserve better than the man I would be if I were only counting the minutes we had left.” 

“I wish to god I were wrong about this, Aramis. I’m going to miss you so much.” 

Quietly he says, “I will always love you.”   

Her sigh is so tired. “I know you will. You will always love all of us. Find someone who loves you because of that, not in spite of it.” 

Claire is the smartest woman he has ever met, he takes her words and slots another truth about himself into place; he is not made for that life. He tells her to mail anything of his she finds. Standing at the door they hold each other for nearly five minutes. He tries to memorize the smell of her hair, the feel of her skin on his lips. She cries quietly into his coat and he strokes her back until she stops shaking and then, as though it were any other Saturday, he just walks away. 

 

On the way home he continues to catalog the tangible bits of his world. His right glove has a hole in it; he can feel the cold air getting in. The sun is setting earlier than he’d expected.

He carries on cataloguing back at the flat. The heat is up too high. He forgot to rinse the coffee pot. He can call someone. 

Even after seminary he still had his family, his parents and Porthos. Talking to his mother tonight is more than he can handle.  Aramis sits in the corner of the couch until the sun sets completely and then dials Porthos’ quarters on base.  He answers on the third ring and he is out of breath. 

“Private second-class du Vallon speaking.” 

“Porthos.”

“Aramis! You caught me getting ready. Your mum sent me whatever card was on the top of her pile again, now the other recruits think it’s my birthday. They want to take me out and who am I to turn down free drinks, eh?”

His laugh is deep and happy and Aramis has never felt farther away from him. 

“Wait, it’s Saturday night, did you give Claire the week off from your sorry face?” 

“She…"

“Aramis?”  In the background Aramis can hear men calling for Porthos. “Aramis?”

“Go. Go, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” 

“Fuck that.”  He covers the mouthpiece of the phone to call over his shoulder. “You lot! Go on without me… Of course you can!  It was just an excuse anyway, I’m not fooled… Well, now you can spend that money getting yourselves drunk instead of me. Now fuck off.”   They’re laughing as they walk away and then Porthos' voice is clear again. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” 

Aramis hears how weary his own voice is. “I really, really don’t.” 

“I’ll just sit here, then. You can talk or not. I’ll be here either way.” 

In the dark of his bedroom Aramis listens to the breathing on the other end of the line adds to his list of tangible things:  Porthos. 


	5. Twenty-two - San Sebastián

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me a story then,” he says. “Tell me a tale about something you love.” So for the next hour Aramis spins him the tale of the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont and of Porthos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I think of how best to thank ceeturnalia for all she does for me I fall woefully short. Thank you again, dearest. For everything, not just the comma-slapping.
> 
> This was supposed to be shorter than the previous chapter. And it is, but not by much. Forgive my wordiness, at least I got us out of Paris. There are some notes at the end for those who like some of the behind the scenes details.

For the two weeks after he walks away from Claire’s flat, Aramis is rudderless. He feels like he is merely ricocheting from one place to another rather than moving with any purpose. His mother brings him food, because she says that’s what mothers do. She doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t pry. She just puts stew in his refrigerator and kisses him on the top of his head and leaves him be.

By the last week in February, he’s starting to get his feet under him again. He thinks about how Porthos had been when he got off the train almost a year earlier. How he’d seemed taller, calmer, more focused. Aramis has no desire to learn to dig shelters in the snow, but he wouldn’t mind some of the side effects.

When the phone rings on the first of March, Aramis is almost himself again. He stopped by the market for himself, and even if all he picked up was a stack of frozen dinners, he’s still calling it a success. Porthos’ voice is a wire strung tight.

“Aramis, I heard back from the review team. I start training at the end of the month.”

“Porthos, my friend, of course you do. They’d have been fools to even consider not accepting you.”

Applying to the Special Forces after only a year had been a gamble on Porthos’ part, but Aramis pushed him until he submitted the paperwork. The 1st Marine Infantry Parachute Regiment has the toughest standards of any unit in the French army, but Aramis knows that this has been Porthos’ dream since he enlisted. A unit devoted to quick response, evacuating civilians from war zones, and the capture of war criminals: the perfect fit for a man who wants to make sure no one else ever feels like there is nobody on their side. Aramis knows how much this means to Porthos.

“Thanks, mate. Most guys don’t go for a transfer for another year, don’t know what I was thinking giving it a go so early, but thanks for convincing me. For believing in me.”

“They’ll be lucky to have you.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m always right. Tell me about the training.”

For the next hour Aramis listens to Porthos describe the adaptation and commando training that he’ll have to survive over the coming three months. His enthusiasm is infectious, and in spite of himself Aramis finds he is genuinely interested in the answers when he asks questions like “And what other kind of survival training will there be?” He wonders at how only Porthos could drive him to this.

 

Aramis' good mood after the call lasts two days. It pops like a soap bubble when his mother calls to say that they’ve set a date for the move. His father’s retirement will be official in three weeks and they’ll be leaving right after, less than a week after Porthos leaves for training. All the ground Aramis has gained since ending things with Claire slips out from under him again.

His next month is filled with listening to Porthos talk about the bits of training he is most excited for, and with helping his mother pack. Aramis is happy for them and knows that the steps they are all taking are the right ones, but every day feels like there is a fist around his heart.

If Porthos makes it through adaptation training, he has another six months of intelligence and special operations courses before he can be assigned permanently and sent out on deployments. He will, of course, make it through. He’ll surpass everyone’s expectations, if only because he is Porthos, and Aramis believes there is no one better in this world. Aramis knows, in a way he didn’t when Porthos was first assigned to the mountain unit, that Porthos will not be home for more than a short visit for a very long time. And when he does come home, who is to say where home will be?

Paris begins to look emptier and emptier to Aramis. A city with so many people, singing with such sound, but it seems to be disappearing around him. When his parents leave, it is like a door has slammed shut and Aramis can hear it echo off of every building. He used to have ties here but he feels the twang of them snapping down to his bones.

If Claire was right, and he knows she was, that he is not destined for marriage and family and staying put, then why should he stay here? The idea of embracing that declaration and claiming it for his own had never occurred to Aramis. It does now and it is stunning. He can go anywhere. Even when he hiked the Camino, Aramis knew he would be coming home. But now, for him like for Porthos, anywhere can become home.

Because he is Aramis, he does not even consider how this also means it's possible nowhere will ever be home again.

 

The way he chooses a destination is not quite throwing a dart at a map, but it's close. Aramis is flipping through a rack of vintage postcards trying to find a good one to send Porthos when his fingers stop on a breathtaking picture of a deep blue bay. “La Bahia de la Concha” is sprawled across the top of the card in bright yellow letters. Aramis taps the edge of the card with his index finger and tries to think of a reason why not.

By the middle of April, two weeks after his parents leave and one week after Porthos calls to say that if he never has to take another martial arts class it’ll be too soon, Aramis is on a train to San Sebastián. It's Charlotte, of all people, who has come through for him. Her sister manages a small _pintxos_ tavern and is always in need of help.

There is the smallest flat in the world available to let over the bar; the owners like to rent it to the bartenders with the thought that those who are working during the noise never complain about the noise. Once Aramis finishes paying his rent and feeding himself he might have enough money left over to rub two coins together, if he isn’t feeding himself anything fancy. San Sebastián is notoriously expensive to live in, but every time he even starts to reconsider he thinks about how the picture of the bay made his heart race and he knows this is what he needs right now.

 

Charlotte’s sister’s name is Nicole. Like Charlotte, she is dark-haired and dark-skinned but unlike Charlotte, she warns him, Nicole is impervious to flirting. She meets him at the bar, gives him the keys to the flat, and after he drops off his things, shows him around the tavern. Nicole gives Aramis the ground rules of the job while she is slicing limes so quickly that it seems the knife blurs. “No drinking on shift. No undercharging the pretty girls. No making messes back here, there’s a system and it’s there for a reason. Don’t be that guy.” She points at him with the knife, “And let’s just get this straight up front, if you try to play grab-ass with me I will nail your wrist to the bar with this knife, and you’ll have to pull the rest of your shift one-handed.”

She barely comes to his shoulder but Nicole is the most terrifying person Aramis has ever met. He loves her instantly.

For the next six weeks Aramis tries to keep his head above water on shifts, wanders the beaches, and learns that if Christian is running the grill and Aramis puts on his very best flirt game he can get one, only one, free meal a day from the kitchen. On Thursdays Nicole’s boyfriend comes in for the last hour of her shift so he can take her to dinner. He is a tall, lanky British ex-pat with a stupidly large house somewhere in town. Nicole moves through her cleaning routine and he watches as though she were a prima ballerina performing her solo. Aramis teases him, but with no trace of irony he says, “I believe she is made of magic. About that I cannot be shamed.”

Aramis goes back to wiping down glasses behind the bar. We could all do worse, he thinks, than someone who believes that of us.

 

June, when it comes, is dry and every day is warmer than the day before. The door from the alley to the kitchen is open, and whenever the door to bar opens as well, Aramis revels in the cross breeze. One evening, late in the month, Aramis hears the bells on the door and turns his face to catch the breeze. The man coming in to the bar stops in the door, backlit by the glare from the road, and doesn’t move until Nicole’s near-fluent Spanish rings out with, “Or you could stand there with the door open all day, that’s a good idea, too.”

“The problem with Spain,” the man says, “is that everyone’s always yelling at me in fucking Spanish.”

Aramis says his name first in a breath and then in a yell. “Porthos? Porthos!"

When he retells the story Aramis will say that he vaulted the bar like a superhero, barely touching the wood with his hands. The reality—that he clambers up the cleaning trough, bangs his knee on the underside of the bar, kicks over a nearly-empty glass of white wine, and almost falls flat on his face when he gets his shoe caught between the brass rail and the bar coming over the far side—is not nearly as dashing. Nicole will make him clean the entire mess and promises to flay him if he ever gets his filthy shoes near her clean glasses again.

He cares about exactly none of this as he’s plowing through the few tables and grabbing at Porthos’ shoulders. “How are you here? How are you even here?”

Porthos catches him up in a huge backslapping hug. “I have a weekend liberty before airborne and tactical training starts. I figured I’d spend it with the person I knew I missed the most. But flying to your mum would be too expensive, so I came here instead.”

“You’re a cock.”

“Part of my charm, eh?”

Aramis smiles and Porthos wonders if he left the door open or if all that light is coming from Aramis. “It really is.”

He turns back to the bar, thumping Porthos in the chest as he crows, “Nicole! This is my best friend.”

Her face is wildly unimpressed and mostly concerned with mopping up the worst of the white wine spill. “No shit.”

“You must pardon Nicole, my dear Porthos. Our fair maiden is under a terrible curse. You see, she can only show her soft and charming side to one man, and to the rest of us she is doomed to act the harridan.”

The cherry she throws hits Aramis in the left eyebrow. “That’s not a curse, that’s just the practical result of working with your terrible face and piss-poor washing-up skills.”

Porthos claps Aramis on the shoulder and asks him, “You love her to pieces, don’t you?”

Aramis brings his right hand to his heart. “Utterly.”

Porthos shakes her hand, introduces himself with his full rank and Aramis stops to just bask in the sheer presence of Porthos.

“He’s cute,” Nicole says. “He can have a beer.”

 

While he drinks Aramis gets the rest of the story. Porthos has a weekend to spare, and the training he’s due to start on Monday is only 54 kilometers away, just over the border in Bayonne. He’d remembered the name of the tavern from their conversations, and figured if he didn’t find Aramis here he’d just hang out and wait. “You live upstairs, not like I could miss you if I tried.”

“I’m off tomorrow. It would have served you right for showing up unannounced if I’d gone off on the town and you had to wait.”

Porthos’ eyes burn into him. “You’re off tomorrow?”

Aramis feels the flush on the back of his neck, and wonders how after so many years Porthos can still do this to him with only a look. “I am.”

Porthos says, “Well. That’s good information to have.” He takes a deep pull at his beer, looking at Aramis over the rim of the glass. Aramis has four hours left in this shift, and he knows that continuing this dance right now will mean spending those four hours fighting down an erection or fighting Porthos’ knowing smirk if he sneaks off to relieve the pressure.

Instead Aramis introduces him to the regulars. They ask about where he’s been, where he’s going next, and soon Porthos is regaling them all with tales of martial arts training, strategy, and the many and varied uses of night-vision goggles.

Aramis is coming back from checking the pressure on one of the CO2 lines in the back room when he finds himself frozen by the sight of Porthos chatting amiably with Nicole. It is utterly unremarkable, and yet everything about the moment makes his skin sing. He can feel his fingertips prickle and he can hear the voice of Nicole’s boyfriend in his head saying, _I believe she is made of magic._

Porthos is made of magic. He brings the sun in with him from the road. He brings cool breezes in the height of summer. He shows Aramis that his heart is a trick hat and where he thought was the limit of his capacity for love is just a false bottom, and beyond it there is only more and more room for how much he loves this man.

 

Oh. Shit. Oh, hell. Aramis puts his hand on the doorframe to steady himself and tries to keep his skin from flying apart, thinking, Dear lord, he is so in love with this man.

He is so impossibly in love with this man.

 

The last hour of Aramis’ shift, he feels like he’s acting out a role. This is how Aramis would wash glasses if he weren’t in love with Porthos. If Aramis weren’t in love with Porthos, he would laugh with Nicole just like this. But underneath it, everything has shifted.

Claire, it seems, was right. She was as right about his love for Porthos as she was to say he was not made to settle his heart on only one person. Aramis is glad that if only one of them gets to live that life, to wake every day with his heart knitted to the same someone as the day before and all the tomorrows after, to be cherished like that, it should be Porthos.

When they return to Aramis’ flat above the bar there are a few awkward moments while they remember how to be around each other again. Porthos asks, “How are you? We haven’t talked in a couple of weeks. Have you settled in enough to be fighting off the girls? Or boys?"

“Oh, there is always a someone,” Aramis says. “But then again there’s always another someone after them. You know how I am. At the moment my affections are, let us say, unspecific.” His grin is a shield.

“It’s not as though there’s not enough to go around.”

“What a charming notion, Porthos. Yes, I’m merely distributing my largess among the populace.” He makes a grand waving gesture with his hand as he grabs two beers from the refrigerator and passes one over.

Porthos drinks it while poking around at the pictures in the flat. There is a copy of the pen and ink drawing that his mother made for Porthos, hanging beside a picture of the two of them in their park. There is even a picture of Porthos with Aramis’ parents the Christmas before. Porthos is wearing that tragically ugly shirt. He grins and turns back to Aramis.

“I spoke to them last week, it sounds like your mum is really loving having your dad home all the time.”

“She is. It’s a kind of endless holiday for them. You know she won’t be able to go much longer without finding someone else to fuss over. But until then they’re sending me pictures of themselves having breakfast holding hands and a dozen other things I pretend to be unimpressed over.”

Porthos laughs. He’s seen how Aramis loves his parents, how he admires their love. “We should all be so lucky, eh? Wake up thirty years later and find we’re still glad about the person we picked for forever?”

Aramis’ throat clicks as he swallows. “Absolutely.”

There are only so many days, Aramis knows, between this day and the day Porthos calls to say he’s found the person he picks for forever. Aramis swears to himself that he will not squander those days. He will take from them everything he can. And then when they are gone, he will have those memories to take back out whenever he wants. He will turn them over in his hands and imagine he can still feel Porthos’ skin against his own.

“So. I know it’s a day off for you, but now I’m here, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” There is something low in Porthos’ voice. Aramis is sure he’s not imagining it, but he plays at ignoring it just to see what Porthos will do. Oh, he’s missed playing like this with Porthos.

"I thought you might like to see the bay. Why, what do you want to do tomorrow?"

Porthos meets his eyes and does not look away. “I wanna fuck on every flat surface in here.”

Aramis rolls his beer bottle between his palms, one of his chunky silver rings clacking against the glass. "Are you sure? The beach is really quite lovely.”

“Every flat surface. And some of the lumpy ones.”

Porthos sets his beer on the windowsill and advances on Aramis. He wasn’t looking for it at Christmas but it’s apparent, now that he’s in a position to appreciate it, how different Porthos’ body is. Not just in its shape, though there’s another forty pounds of muscle he just isn’t used to seeing this close, but in how he moves. It would be a cliché at best to compare him to some kind of big cat, but Aramis would have to be a fool not to see that same kind of lethal grace.

When he’s finally in front of Aramis, Porthos takes the beer from his hand and puts it on the floor next to them. “I thought about this. About how you look when you want it so bad," Porthos says. He drags at Aramis’ lower lip with his thumb. “Thought about your mouth especially. I missed this fucking mouth.” And then Porthos is pressing his lips against Aramis’, pushing until Aramis can feel his teeth biting into the inside of his lip. It’s as much a marking as a kiss and it is only broken by the noise Aramis makes in his throat when he feels Porthos shift against him.

That noise breaks the dam, and then there are hands everywhere. Porthos is tugging the collar of Aramis’ shirt aside so he can mouth at the side of his neck. Aramis is rucking Porthos’ t-shirt up under his arms just to be able to run his fingers over Porthos’ ribs, to dig at them with his nails. Porthos is pulling at buttons, fingers clumsy in the moment, and then grabbing Aramis by the collar again and hauling him close for another kiss, this one startlingly tender.

Porthos devotes both hands to pulling open the fly of Aramis’ jeans. “Missed you so fucking much.”

One hand snakes into Aramis’ boxers, Porthos’ fingers so hot against his cock. “Missed you more,” Aramis chokes.

Porthos tightens his fist and pumps one time and groans at the sound of Aramis gasping his name. “Probably not."

Aramis makes a grab for Porthos’ zipper only to meet Porthos’ hands snatching at his own. With their fingers twined together Porthos presses their joined fists to the wall above Aramis head and rocks his hips into the cradle of Aramis’ thighs. Aramis lets out a stuttered “F-fuck,” and bucks into the pressure and then Porthos’ mouth is over his and neither of them says anything more.

Porthos twists their hands, using his forearms as leverage and then they are just rutting into each other in a way they haven’t since they were fifteen and making out for the first time in the wet grass of a Paris park.

“God, Porthos, I had dreams about your cock. Even like this I can still feel how hot it is. Always so fucking hot.”

Porthos’ mouth comes crashing down onto Aramis’ shoulder and he can feel Porthos’ teeth biting into him through the fabric of his shirt. Aramis gasps, nearly insensible, and he can feel the answering uncoordinated jerk of Porthos’ hips against his own. Then, with no more notice than the sound of Porthos groaning into his shoulder, Aramis can feel Porthos coming against him. With the second shudder his mouth drops open in a yell that sounds like nothing so much as triumph.

Aramis’ eyes are smiling as he says, “Did I just make you come in your jeans like a teenager?”

Porthos presses his smiling mouth to Aramis’ in a kiss. “I told you, I missed you more.” And then Porthos drops to his knees to pull Aramis’ cock into his mouth and the only sound in the room is Aramis swearing in Spanish as he comes down Porthos’ throat.

They stay where they are for a few moments. Porthos is catching his breath with his forehead against Aramis’ thigh and Aramis is untangling his fingers from where he’s fisted them in his own hair. There are tired kisses and the promise of another round after a nap and as they turn to leave the room Aramis runs his hand up the wall and pats at it. “I suppose it counts as a flat surface.”

Porthos swats him on the ass hard enough for the crack to echo in the tiny room. Aramis’ voice is a tease.

“Next time? Harder.”

He’d only said it to be funny but then he sees Porthos’ eyes grow enormous and so he tucks the thought away with a grin. Next time.

 

Aramis wakes far too early, unused to the sound of another person in the room with him. He watches the sun track across the floor and begin to crawl up Porthos’ leg. He wants nothing more than to sit and watch as it works its way over the rest of him, but his body is making other demands.

When he comes back to the bedroom, teeth cleaned, bladder empty, coffee started, Porthos has sprawled on his belly and spread his limbs to take over the entire bed. One leg is bent, his knee shifted up, and Aramis can see the line at the join of ass and thigh. He can see Porthos’ balls hanging heavy and loose in the warm air and there is nothing Aramis wants more than to suck them into his mouth, to feel them, one at a time, fat on his tongue.

Aramis stretches out, pillows his head on Porthos’ leg, and lays soft kisses up he inside of his thighs. The angle is incredibly awkward but feeling the skin tighten under his tongue as he licks at Porthos’ balls is worth the ache. He is mouthing at them, sucking and licking and feeling them draw tight and loosen again, when he realizes Porthos is moving. Not much, just a hesitant little hitch of his hips against the sheets, but somewhere in his dreams Porthos can feel Aramis’ mouth on him.

His tongue strokes harder, loving the taste of heat and sweat and Porthos as he licks at them. From where his face is pressing against the sheets Aramis can see the head of Porthos’ cock growing flushed and dark as he grinds himself against the bed in his sleep. Unable to resist such temptation, Aramis kisses it, flicks at it with his tongue.

He brings himself up on his elbows, one hand cupping each half of Porthos’ ass. Aramis can see Porthos’ face now. His eyebrows are tight and his breath has grown heavy and deep. He’s waking up and while Aramis will miss his unimpeded playtime, it will be nice to have an active participant. He nips at the meat of Porthos’ ass and hears Porthos draw in a quick breath then feels as his hips begin to circle against the sheets.

Aramis pulls the two halves open, dragging his teeth over the soft skin just inside the crease and hearing Porthos’ low groan. With a smug smile he returns to his earlier position, mouthing again at Porthos’ balls, seeing his cock begin to weep. At the first contact of Aramis’ mouth there he can hear Porthos mutter _Jesus fuck_ , into the pillow, and knows that he’s well and truly awake now. His onslaught only intensifies.

“Taking advantage of a sleeping man, Aramis? What kind of depravity are you sinkin’ to in this place?”

“It’s not the place, my Porthos, it’s how completely gorgeous you looked splayed out for me. It was like someone had laid a table with only my favorite dishes.”

Porthos looks back over his shoulder with a grin. “Oh really? Like a nice bowl of nuts do you?”

Aramis’ laugh sends his breath over the spot he’d just licked and Porthos kicks a heel into Aramis’ hip. “Hey! Wet gets cold when you breathe on it.”

Kissing the spot in question, Aramis rises up on his knees and drapes himself over Porthos’ back. “I worried you would sleep forever.” He kisses the skin behind Porthos’ ear.

“It’s fucking eight-thirty. I haven’t had a lie-in for months. You’d better make this worth my while.”

“I promise I’ll do my best to make you scream so loud you scandalize Nicole.”

Porthos raises an articulate eyebrow. “One, even she’s not at work at this horrible hour. And two, she’s Charlotte’s sister, Aramis. Safe to say she knows far worse about us than that we’re loud.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to call this round practice, won’t we?”

In the end the pillow muffles Porthos’ shouts, and Aramis, dragging his cock through the tight lube-slick press of Porthos’ thighs, smothers his own orgasm in the wet heat of Porthos’ mouth as they kiss.

They fall back asleep and the morning passes them by. When they wake again the bedroom is sticky with the heat and they are cursing themselves for not cleaning up earlier.

The shower isn’t big enough for both of them at once so Porthos makes fresh coffee and toast while Aramis showers and when it’s Porthos’ turn Aramis contents himself with critiquing Porthos’ new physique.

“Are you just going to sit there and go on about every part of me as I’m trying to wash it?”

“Can you blame me? I feel I’ve been remiss until now in letting you know how much all your hard work is appreciated. I mean, look at your legs. Simply incredible. If I thought my legs would look like that when I was done I’d take up regular physical exertion as well.”

Porthos shoots him a look and arches an eyebrow.

“Other than fucking, I mean.”

 

They do, eventually, make it to the beach. It’s as beautiful as Aramis promised and they walk for hours just soaking up the sun and talking. It reminds Porthos of nothing so much as their walks back home through the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont.

They eat standing up at the counter, spreading out the container of _pintxos_ Christian had boxed up for them before they’d left the night before, each tapas-like piece picked deliberately. The way Christian had bobbed his eyebrows at Aramis said that he was sure they would need the food to keep their strength up.

Porthos is remarkably protective of his share, guarding each one with the leftover toothpick from the one before and soon they are poking at each other like warring children. When Porthos turns back from refill his water glass he sees Aramis’ arm stretched over the table, fingers pinched around the spike of one of the _pintxos_ on Porthos’ plate. It’s a gorgeous layer cake of crusty bread, salty ham and soft cheese and in the space of a moment it is gone and Aramis’ face is smugly satisfied. For Porthos this is a declaration of war.

The glass hits the counter loud enough that Aramis jumps. Porthos asks “Is that how it is now? Stealing a man’s food while his back is turned? You know I can’t just let you get away with that.” He pushes away from the counter; Aramis’ eyes grow wide and he makes a dash for the bedroom.

Porthos is on him in seconds, pushing at him until Aramis is sitting with his back against the pillows, his legs wide in an exaggerated sprawl. Aramis is still sure he can get out of whatever is coming. He’s always been quicker.

What Aramis has failed to take into account is how much of the time between now and the last time when they were this close has been filled with Porthos receiving detailed and intensive hand-to-hand combat training. He was already a dirty fighter; with training and the motivation of possibly having Aramis writhing beneath him he is ruthless.

It seems the space of a blink before Porthos has Aramis’ wrists wrapped in one hand and his other pressing on Aramis’ chest as he straddles Aramis’ thighs. Aramis is not one to play hard to get, but even he is embarrassed at how fast he responds. Startled breaths flare his nose wide and his pupils dilate.

“Now, it’s long after noon, and that means the lovely Nicole _is_ downstairs now. And we’d hate to disrupt her while she’s doing the books, wouldn’t we? So I’m going to need to you to be quiet. Can you do that on your own?”

Aramis nods but when Porthos reaches to pluck the bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer he rolls his hips against Aramis and Aramis’ groaned “Fuck!” makes a liar out of him.

“Now, that's a shame, seems you are going to need some help after all. I know how I kept lovely Charlotte quiet,” Porthos’ hand sneaks up from Aramis’ chest to cup him under the jaw just as he’d done to Charlotte that night. The pinch of Porthos’ fingers and the curl of his pinky against his jugular send sparks down Aramis’ spine. His parted lips can’t hold back the whine or the Please, and Porthos smiles.

“It's okay, I'll help."

His lips are already open and he can feel the drag of Porthos’ fingers across them, sliding in over his teeth, pressing down on his tongue. Porthos shifts his hand until he is holding Aramis’ mouth in place again, his thumb pressing the skin at the hollow under Aramis’ jaw and three fingers spread over his tongue. He tilts Aramis’ face forward slightly and down, knowing that his fingers will make it difficult for Aramis to swallow and not wanting Aramis taken out of the moment by choking and coughing around his own saliva. It has the added bonus of making it easier to meet Aramis’ eyes and see the gorgeous struggle in them.

Making a move to suck on Porthos’ fingers, Aramis tries to close his mouth, tries to stroke at them with his tongue, but Porthos just presses them a little farther in, curls them over Aramis’ tongue a bit as he shakes his head. “I’m not putting them there for you to get them wet, I’m putting them there to stop your talkin’. You can’t do it on your own. That’s alright, because I know you can’t help it, every little bit of you is just so greedy for it, you can’t stop yourself.”

Porthos raises himself until he is kneeling over Aramis, his fingers still stuffing Aramis’ mouth full, his thumb still stroking at the soft hairs under his jaw.

“I’m going to let go of your hands now. You keep them right where they are because if I have to hold you down, I’m going to have to stop what I’m doing with my left hand. And you don’t want me to stop what I’m about to be doing with my left hand.”

What he’s going to be doing, apparently, is tugging at Aramis’ shirt, rucking it up under his arms and dragging his fingers over Aramis’ nipples. Aramis’ breath is hot around his fingers and he can feel the little whines caught in Aramis’ throat.

“That’s nice, is it? This nicer?” Porthos slips his left hand inside Aramis’ pajama pants, stroking his fingers up the inside of Aramis’ thigh, brushing them lightly over his balls and up his cock.

Aramis wants to beg, wants to say, _Please, please let me show you how nice that is._ But with Porthos’ fingers for a gag, he can’t make more than an exaggerated huff and plead with his eyes.

“I thought so. But here’s the nicest bit.” The awkward dance Porthos has to do to get his own boxers off should break the mood. It should make Aramis feel ridiculous just sitting there, half reclining on his own pillows, holding his hands above his head for no reason and feeling himself drool around Porthos’ fingers. It should but it doesn’t. All Aramis can think of is what might be about to happen.

He is already imagining the delicious stroke of Porthos’ cock against his own and the pressure as Porthos rolls his hips into Aramis’. Instead he sees Porthos press the pump on the lube twice, reach his hand around behind himself, and then drop his eyelids closed and hiss.

“If you’d been able to keep quiet on your own I’d have let you help with this bit. You know how much I love your fingers in my ass. I just have to imagine you, I figure. Means I’ll be sure to be slow like you always are. I was hoping to feel you inside me much sooner, but you’re always so careful with me. Take forever stretching me. Course that may be because you’re only ever gettin' me ready for more fingers, you’ve never been stretching me for your cock.” He opens his eyes to meet Aramis’. “Not like I am now.”

Aramis can feel his own cock jerk, and the slow drip of his own excitement running down the underside of the head. Feeling Porthos’ fingers pressing on his tongue, feeling how stretched his lips are around them, he knows Porthos can’t understand anything but the desperation behind his sounds and he finds he is growing free with his words.

 _Please_ , Porthos would hear him say, _please I need you. Please I love you. Please I’ve dreamed about this for years. If I can’t have you forever please let me have you like this right now. Please._

But the words are just a muffled burst of want around Porthos’ hand. Aramis can feel something dripping from his chin and he’s not sure if it’s the spit that accompanies his pleading sobs or desperate tears. Spit, he realizes. He’s not crying yet, but oh, he wants to.

He’s trying to buck his hips up into Porthos, to get some kind of friction against his cock other than the scratch of his own sleep bottoms, but the press of Porthos’ knees outside his thighs keeps him from anything more than the smallest fumbling thrust.

It seems like years later when Aramis hears the liquid squelch of Porthos’ fingers pulling free from his own body, and feels Porthos rise up further on his knees.

“Hips up now,” he says and when Aramis obeys Porthos works his pajama pants down one side at a time until they’re pinning Aramis’ legs together at mid-thigh. “That should help you keep your legs still, you’re being so good with your hands but I know it’s going to be hard for you once I move.” Another pump from the lube and he grins at Aramis’ frantic eyes.

Feeling Porthos’ hand gripping around his cock makes Aramis’ vision go grey at the edges and he keens around the gag of Porthos’ fingers. It is almost a relief when he feels the tight slide of Porthos’ ass around his cock, like he’s finally scratching an itch he’s had for hours.

Porthos rocks himself down, left hand gripping at Aramis’ shoulder for leverage and the right stroking at the front of Aramis’ tongue. He’s not reaching far enough back to trigger Aramis’ gag reflex but the gentle rub of his now-wrinkled finger tips means that Aramis can’t forget they’re there as he whimpers and groans.

When his thighs are flush with Aramis’, the full length of Aramis inside him, Porthos tugs Aramis’ lower jaw down just a bit more and leans in to kiss and suck at his upper lip. Porthos traces the inside of Aramis’ lip with his tongue, nips at it, and whispers into Aramis’ mouth, “I wish you knew how many times I’ve held myself in my fist and thought about this. I know every inch of your cock, Aramis. Had it in my mouth, my hand, even sliding against where it’s buried now. But none of it as good as this.”

The roll of his hips as Porthos sits back up has Aramis shouting around Porthos’ hand.

“Now some folks would say that because I’m the one with a cock in my ass, that I’m the one getting fucked right now. But I don’t think that’s true, do you?”

Aramis just shakes his head and chokes a sob around Porthos’ fingers.

“That’s right. I think anyone watching would know just which one of us is on top right now, and not just because I’m riding you.” Porthos can feel Aramis’ cock jerk inside him. “You like that do you? Someone standing in that doorway and watching you take it while I fuck myself on you?” Aramis’ eyes are going unfocused at the idea, and Porthos can see that he’s close to losing himself. He jerks at Aramis’ chin, and meets his startled eyes.

“Hey! None of that.”

Aramis can’t help the whine that comes out.

“No, I like the sounds you make too much to be done so soon. Besides, if I’m the one who comes in his jeans like a teenager, then you have to be the one with staying power, don’t you?” Aramis feels his own words coming back at him like a slap and mutters _Fuck fuck fuck_ , lips closing as much as they can around Porthos’ fingers.

When Porthos starts to ride him in earnest Aramis has to close his eyes, if he has to look at Porthos’ face he will come for sure. He still has his eyes closed when he hears the wet, slick slurp of Porthos’ lube covered hand around his own cock.

“You think closing your eyes will help? You think you can’t picture me stroking myself just fine even with your eyes shut?”

And fuck, he is so right. Aramis can see the motion of Porthos’ hand like a movie projected on the inside of his eyelids. He squeezes his eyes tighter and his jaw clenches, he knows he’s biting into Porthos’ fingers with his lower teeth, spit running past Porthos’ knuckles, but he can’t help himself. Only the downward pressure of Porthos’ hand is keeping Aramis from completely biting down on his fingers.

The stinging pain of Aramis’ teeth seems to be what sends Porthos over the edge and Aramis opens his eyes to see Porthos come, shooting white and hot across Aramis’ chest. Porthos has his own eyes closed through the aftershocks and the nail on his thumb is biting into the skin under Aramis’ jaw.

When he opens them again he can see Aramis’ eyes, so eloquent in their begging. If Porthos were feeling kind he would grind his hips down into Aramis, pinch at his nipples, whisper in his ear, let him come. But he knows that they’re close to the end of their weekend, that this memory will have to last them possibly for years, and he is not feeling kind.

Twice more he brings Aramis dancing to the edge of his own orgasm with rolls of his hips and a filthy list of all the places he’s dreamed of fucking Aramis. He talks about Aramis bent over the bar downstairs, about him spread naked on the beach, glorious in the sun, about him pressed against the wall in the canteen where Porthos and the other recruits eat. Aramis would be such a beautiful spectacle for them. They’d pass through, commenting on the gorgeous display and how lucky Porthos is to be able to fuck that perfect ass.

When he finally lets Aramis come Porthos can see the tears pricking at the corner of Aramis’ eyes and rolling down his temples. He strokes Aramis’ face and whispers to him how beautiful he is and then slowly pulls his fingers from Aramis’ mouth. They kiss for long minutes, swimming in each other’s lazy bliss as Porthos wipes the saliva from his chin and rubs the big muscles at the corner of Aramis’ jaw, fingers digging into the joints until Aramis groans in pleasure.

“Sore?”

“A little.”

“No complaints, though?”

Aramis’ smile is blinding. “Never.”

They clean themselves off with a damp washrag and return to the bed, curling around each other and trading kisses until their bellies tell them it’s time for supper.

 

Sunday comes, bright and calm, and Aramis takes Porthos to La Perla, his favorite brunch spot, the one he goes to when he gets an extra shift and finds himself with unexpected money. Porthos orders the fried eggs broken over potatoes, garlic, and truffles. Aramis gets the plate of Iberian ham he loves so much. They spend the meal passing bites back and forth, moaning over the taste and watching the crowds on the beach.

“I wasn’t sure about coming here,” Porthos says. “I don’t mean coming to see you, that I’m always sure I about. It’s this place I was thinkin’ of. It’s easy here, ain’t it? Never too hot, never too cold. Food’s good, beach is gorgeous.” A tall dark-skinned goddess in a low-slung sarong and bright yellow bikini top passes in front of them “And that doesn’t hurt either.”

Aramis’ gaze follows her but by the time she looks back he’s staring at Porthos again. “It certainly doesn’t.”

“The thing is, I could live this life. I could be here every day and lie about in it and I wouldn’t even have to _try_ to love it. But then I think about what I’m going back to. It’s hard; I won’t lie. Every day is work. But I’ve never once wondered if I was doing the right thing.”

Aramis can only listen.

“I got so lucky. Seems the wrong way round, but... I knew my mum loved me, even when we had nothing else we still had that. And after she died I had you, and your folks. The best people in the world have taken care of me in my life. And now I can take care of other people.” He turns to Aramis and shrugs one shoulder, almost sheepish. “Turns out I like doing it and if I keep trying one day I might even be good at it.”

Aramis thinks of the hours Porthos spent on the phone with him not even talking, just listening to Aramis and giving as much of himself as he could from hundreds of miles away. He thinks of Porthos' solid strength at every dark time in his life. He is already so, so good at it, but Aramis knows now is not the time to say that.

“I have a purpose. I sound like such a complete dick sayin' that, I know, but it’s good for me. It works. I thought, after my mum died, I was done having a family. But I’m part of two families now, yours and this one.” His big fist thumps at the unit insignia on his t-shirt. “And both of them taught me the same thing. You take what you know and you try to make the world a better place. Evac an embassy, take the sick neighbor some stew, protect a kid, make your _chimichurri_ from scratch, whatever you’ve got. Anything else seems ungrateful, and my mum…” he trails off but they both know what he meant.

Porthos’ mother taught him to say ‘thank you’, as big or as small as necessary.

An hour before the last bus for the border leaves Aramis tucks Porthos’ bag into a taxi and gathers Porthos as close as he can. “I hate that you’ll be so close.”

“I know. It’s worse than when I was off in the Alps.”

“You’ll come back again?”

“Every chance I get.”

Aramis kisses the spot where Porthos’ neck joins his shoulder. Kisses it again and again and pulls at Porthos’ shirt. Porthos sighs into his shoulder. “We’re just making it harder on ourselves now. Why do we do this?”

“Kiss me then, and go.” His mouth is warm on Aramis’ lips, there’s the lightest flick of his tongue and then he is pulling away, tugging the taxi door closed and waving through the open window.

“Love,” Aramis says, hand over his heart.

“Always,” says Porthos.

Then he’s gone.

 

Aramis slips easily back into his life when Monday comes. He washes glasses and talks to Nicole. There are still customers to be served, and at the end of the night the bar still needs to be wiped down one last time. There is a voice in the back of his head, and if Aramis listens closely he can hear it whispering, _You’re in love with him. In love with him._ But self-preservation reduces it to a buzzing hum, and soon the days are the same as all the days before.

The first real crack he sees in the life he has made for himself in Spain comes the week after Porthos leaves. It’s his day off but he’s come downstairs to sneak lunch from the kitchen. Aramis is teasing Nicole for no reason other than to see her fight not to smile, when his gaze lands on a face he’s never seen before.

The man across the bar isn’t paying any attention, so Aramis is free to look. He is utterly mesmerizing, even at first glance. His hair is the kind of shaggy and sun-streaked that comes from actually not giving a shit, rather than from an expensive haircut meant to _look_ like he doesn’t give a shit. Aramis sees the webs of lines at the corners of his eyes and wonders if they come from staring into the sun or laughing. Probably both, he thinks. Definitely both.

He is watching the game on the TV mounted in the corner and drinking a Red Stripe from the bottle. Aramis isn’t looking at the game, but he assumes the wrong side scored because the man throws his hands in the air and gives an exasperated grunt.

“Not your day?” Aramis asks.

The man turns a blinding smile on him and says “My friend, even with a losing team it is always my day.”

Aramis feels like in his heart there is a lock with the tumblers falling into place. The answer is in Spanish, but the accent is like water over dry ground, it is a balm on his soul and every word sounds like home. Aramis feels fifteen again when he replies, “You sound so much like my mother.”

The stranger’s laugh is dry and soft, but it lights his face again. “Did she also have terrible luck picking football winners?”

“No,” Aramis says. “She’s an Argentine.”

He comes around the bar and takes the seat next to Aramis and claps him on the shoulder; Aramis can feel the touch in his fingertips. “You must let me congratulate you on your parentage, and soothe my own sorrows by buying you a drink.” He flashes that smile again, and Aramis knows that no matter what happens next it will be something he pulls out on rainy, cold October days to make himself feel warm.

Martin is, in fact, from Argentina, from a town not too far from where Aramis’ parents now live. His accent is flavored by all the other places he’s lived and when Aramis asks about them Martin just huffs a laugh and says, “Today I feel like I have lived in all the places. All of them."

He is older than Aramis (by nearly twenty years, they will later find out) and no doubt Porthos would tease him about having a thing for older men. Aramis would probably let Porthos tease, because the truth is so much harder to articulate.

Martin has lived a life without compromise. He travels where he wants. He leaves when he is ready. He paints what he loves. Aramis can’t know the sacrifices Martin has made to live the life he does, and how hard it can be. He only knows that he wants to be someone a man like this could love. So when Martin says Aramis is woefully undereducated about music, Aramis says “Perhaps you should teach me."

Martin gestures to a well-worn leather messenger bag slung over the barstool he was sitting on. “I have a mix CD of my favorites.”

“Come back to mine, then, and play it for me .”

 

Aramis thinks he should feel awkward, bringing another man back to a flat where the pillowcase on the right side of the bed still smells like Porthos, but he doesn’t. He thinks Porthos would have leered at him, made himself scarce for the night, and then needled him for details at lunch the next day.

Aramis hates his music. The first time they kiss it’s because Aramis can’t take anymore. Martin is about to put on another piece of experimental jazz for him to hear and for Aramis they began to blur together into pointless noise almost four songs ago. “What will it take for you to _not_ put that song on?”

“I would require a great deal of persuasion.”

He’s not sure what he expected from Martin as a lover, but he certainly didn’t expect what he gets. Martin wants to kiss forever. He maps the curves of Aramis’ cheekbones with the backs of his knuckles. He curls his fingers behind Aramis’ ears and smooths his lips across Aramis’ collarbones. He noses under Aramis’ chin until Aramis tilts his head back, and Martin licks at the corner of his jaw. He leaves Aramis’ skin with no secrets.

When Martin finally sheathes his cock inside Aramis, it has been hours and Aramis is so sensitive that he feels it everywhere. Martin brackets Aramis’ head with his forearms, and looks straight into Aramis’ eyes while they fuck. Not since Barcelona has Aramis felt so bare under a lover’s eyes. He remembers now how it makes him feel undone.

He breaks eye contact only when he can’t go any longer without squeezing his eyes closed and letting out a strangled groan. Martin puts his lips to Aramis’ ear and whispers “Good?”

“Fuck! So good."

Aramis brings his legs up around Martin’s hips, trying to pull him deeper. Martin buries his face in the crook of Aramis’ neck and hisses at the shift, he bites into the skin there, sucking it into his mouth to feel Aramis’ pulse under his tongue. Aramis hears a shout and realizes that it’s his own voice.

“Please, I can’t... _Please_.”

Aramis reaches his hand down to his own cock and strokes it in time with Martin’s thrusting and in a few minutes he feels his orgasm slam into the back of his neck and he is coming, wet and messy, over his fingers.

Martin pulls Aramis’ hand to his mouth and sucks at it, licking at his fingers until they’re clean. Aramis finds it unspeakably hot. When he finishes he kisses Aramis deep and filthy and Aramis can taste himself on Martin’s tongue. When the kiss ends Aramis is panting into Martin’s mouth.

“More?” Martin asks.

“Always.”

Martin’s grin is wicked and he moves his head to mouth at Aramis’ chest, sucking his nipples. He presses his teeth into the meat of Aramis’ muscles; barely hard enough to be a bite, but Aramis can’t help but hiss at the feeling. The deep stroking of Martin’s cock inside Aramis starts again, and it feels so good that Aramis sees sparks in his peripheral vision. His mouth drops open in a soundless moan and his eyes slam shut.

“Should I stop?”

“No! God, never. Promise me you won’t stop.” He digs his nails into Martin’s ass as if to hold him inside by force.

Martin laughs and pulls almost all the way out. The flare of his cock's head is tugging at the rim of Aramis’ hole, and Aramis almost wails.

“You’re a monster, sent to torment me. Get your cock back inside me before I have to drag you back in.” He digs his fingernails harder.

Martin only smiles. “You’re gorgeous when you’re bossy.”

Aramis grows hard again while they’re fucking and after Martin comes, with his forehead against Aramis’ own and their eyes locked together, he bends to suck Aramis into his mouth. He licks around the head and then pulls back to look at Aramis from under a shock of sandy hair. “You were so good. I want to taste you again.”

His mouth seals around Aramis’ cock again, and he gives a satisfied hum; he reaches his hand down to stroke at Aramis’ balls. When his tongue presses flat against the slit of Aramis’ cock, Aramis shouts and spills into Martin’s mouth. Martin licks softly until Aramis is spent and clean and then collapses next to him, his head on the same pillow.

Aramis swipes at the stripes of spit and come on Martin’s chin and kisses him. He presses his nose to Martin’s shoulder and smiles and that is the last thing he remembers before the morning.

Except for Aramis’ jobs they are inseparable for weeks. He watches Martin paint in bold slashes of color. They debate everything, all the time. Aramis is constantly asking questions and pushing for understanding, and when he goes to bed he feels his head is heavy with what he knows today that he didn’t know yesterday.

While he is at work Aramis tests his feelings about Porthos like he is pushing his tongue against a loose tooth. He is still in love; he finds there is no less love there than there was the day before. But now there is a little bundle of love for Martin that sits next to it. Aramis thinks he will grow old and die and still not understand how his heart works.

 

On a Tuesday morning Aramis stretches his arms above him, legs tangled in Martin’s sheets and says he doesn’t know what he will do with his day off but he’s thinking about not leaving the bed except for the necessities. Martin runs his eyes down Aramis’ body stretched in the sun and something catches fire behind his eyes. “Yes. Don’t leave this bed,” he says.

Aramis reaches for him but Martin is leaving the room. He sits confused for a minute but then thinks this, too, will work itself out. He rolls on to his front, pillows his head on his folded arms and falls asleep again. The next time Aramis opens his eyes Martin has put on paint-spattered trousers, and set up a short easel in the room. He’s frowning in concentration at the large canvas propped on it.

“Do you want me to move?”

“No. Not a muscle. Not this time.”

“Eventually I will have to piss.”

“We’ll deal with that when it comes.”

“I bore quickly.”

Martin smiles. “Tell me a story then,” he says. “Tell me a tale about something you love.” So for the next hour Aramis spins him the tale of the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont and of Porthos.

When Aramis’ story is finished they have slow, almost sleepy sex and the paint left on Martin’s fingers turns Aramis’ skin into a mural.

Martin spends the rest of the day finishing the painting. He watches Aramis as he moves through the room but doesn’t ask him to sit still, never even suggests he slow down. Sometimes he turns the easel to follow Aramis but more often he focuses so intently that Aramis isn’t sure Martin even knows if he is still there.

He finishes just before dark, but he won’t let Aramis look at it until after they’ve gone out and had a decent dinner, and at least two beers each. When they get back to his flat Aramis asks, “Now?”

“What? Yes, you can look at it now.” He shrugs as though he were offering to show Aramis the list of things they need from the shops but he is clearly pleased with how it turned out and watches Aramis’ face for his reaction.

The painting is a riot of strokes. All these shades of red and black and gold and where he would have expected it to seem angry, with those colors, instead it’s a storm of fiery energy and light.

“I look like this to you?”

“That’s what a room with you in it is like.”

Aramis had no idea that's what he was like to anyone, this tangle of brightness and passion. His face splits into a smile and he beams at Martin who just smiles back and says, “Yes, just like that.”

This time they fuck on the couch. Still face to face but with Aramis astride Martin’s lap and his fingers twisted in Martin’s hair. Over Martin’s shoulder Aramis can see the canvas and he feels like his heart is full to bursting.

 

He knew Martin wasn’t in San Sebastián for long, but it still stings a bit when Aramis comes to the flat two weeks later to find the paints boxed up in a carved wooden chest and Martin’s clothes in a battered US Army duffel. “We’re going out tonight,” Martin says as he kisses Aramis. “I’m leaving for Prague in the morning, and I want one last night with my dashing young lover.”

The evening is light, full of laughter and Martin’s excited plans for his new hometown, and when it winds down Martin tugs Aramis into the bedroom. He strokes the arches of Aramis’ brows with his thumbs, brushes the backs of his fingers across Aramis’ cheeks and tucks Aramis’ hair behind his ears. “Yours is a good face,” he says, “and I won’t ever forget it.”

And though they make love until the sun paints the horizon blue instead of black, neither of them says another word.

 

When Martin is gone it feels like after Emilia. It feels like after Lucia. It feels like after every love but Claire. It feels like for all he’s in a new place, a new country, an older body, a wiser face, he has only been standing still. This time he is standing here alone.

The moment playing again and again in Aramis’ head is the moment last Christmas when he turned to see Porthos at the Gare de Lyon. He’d stood so tall and when he looked around he was taking the world in and meeting it face to face. Even when he’d paused in front of Aramis, even when they were just holding each other in tight hugs, Porthos wasn’t standing still.

And now, as only Porthos can, he is taking all the terrified survival of his early years and turning it to a weapon he can use to help other terrified children survive. Aramis, too, has been lucky in his life. He has known love every day. He has known warmth and security and the calm strength of Porthos at his back.

Porthos is giving his thanks to the world for everything it gave him. Aramis is still taking. He loves every minute of his life, but he wonders how much more he would love the whole of his life if his minutes all had a reason.

He picks up the phone and dials the barracks in Bayonne.

When Porthos greets him, tired but happy, Aramis says, “Tell me a story. Tell me a tale of something you love.” Porthos tells him about being a soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The [1er RPIMa](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1st_Marine_Infantry_Parachute_Regiment) is a real unit who does real honest-to-god badass shit. When stalking Bosnian war criminals is not even close to the toughest thing you do all year, you're alright in my book. As much as I love our boy, I'm not actually sure he'd make it in. The wash-out rate in the twelve week adaptation training is nearly 90%. 
> 
> The regiment as a whole would probably be irritated with me for telling you that they look adorable in their red berets.
> 
> For your "I could not make this up" amusement of the day: The 1er RPIMa is part of the Troups de Marine. The Troupes de Marine originate from the compagnies ordinaires de la mer created in 1622 by Cardinal Richelieu. I found that out *after* I picked the unit for Porthos. I love the universe's sense of humor sometimes.
> 
> If you're in the mood to make yourself hungry go look at [pictures](http://www.huffingtonpost.com/phoebe-lapine/san-sebastian-food_b_3843675.html) of _pintxos_.


	6. Twenty-three - San Sebastián

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Christmas Eve he goes to midnight mass by himself. He polishes the arm of the pew with his gloved hand and prays that God will keep Porthos safe while Porthos is keeping everyone else safe.
> 
> The next day he calls Porthos in Bayonne. Porthos wishes him a happy Christmas and tells him in extremely lewd detail all the things he wishes he could give Aramis as a gift.
> 
> “I’m… Porthos I’m not actually sure that last bit is physically possible,” Aramis is laughing and trying to ignore his really quite urgent erection.
> 
> “You haven’t seen me do the rope climb. It’s definitely possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Always, always, always to ceeturnalia go my thanks and love. It's nice to have someone you can call and say "I have the most awful thing I want to do in this chapter," and have them say "That's horrible! Do it!" Thank you also to my ladies of the literary salon/science fair/book club who have kept me laughing and sane.
> 
> Chapter tag for breathplay. 
> 
> As with last chapter, there are notes at the end for those who like a bit of DVD commentary.

The look Nicole gets when she discovers Aramis is impervious to teasing about his ‘long walks on the beach’ is one he treasures. Her eyebrows had pinched together and she’d very nearly stamped her foot in frustration. The simple fact is that since the first week he moved to San Sebastián, the beach has been a place he loved.

At first it was just the quickest and prettiest way to get to the markets. He’s not sure when it became a walk he did for no reason at all, but he remembers distinctly the day in May when he walked most of the length twice just because the air was clean and the sun was warm on his face. In August, the week after Martin leaves, Aramis decides that he’ll run the distance between the tavern and the market. He remembers Porthos talking about finishing a long run, how it made him feel, the satisfied accomplishment he felt at the ache in his legs the next day.

Porthos wasn’t wrong, as it turns out. Aramis loves exertion and the sense of a job well done. He loves how the endorphins keep him happy for hours. Happy is his default state, but he never turns down the chance for more.

By the first of September Aramis is running the beach most days. About that, Nicole is pleased to note, he _can_ be mercilessly teased. She tells him that she’s glad he’s giving the morning sunbathers a good view. She asks if he’s wearing his shirt today or if he’s going to try to give the serving staff at La Perla heart problems.

The one that makes him look most wounded is when she says given what she saw of Porthos’ legs in his tattered cut-offs she could see why Aramis is lacing up his trainers. “Wouldn’t want your boyfriend to outshine you, would you?  And right now his legs are better than yours.”

Aramis jerks on the laces, “Nicole, while I applaud your time spent appreciating the view we both provide you, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Sure,” she says, running her finger down the numbers from the night before. “Best friend. You were very clear about that.”

“I promise you, he is not my boyfriend. He never will be. Our relationship goals are... not compatible."

“If you say so. If that cute lifeguard is on that one tower you should make sure you stop and retie your shoe in front of him.”

“The tall one with the tattoos?”

“Yeah.”

“You are a cruel woman, Nicole."

She’s right, of course, in a way. Wanting to be more like Porthos has been a part of Aramis’ self so long he doesn’t even take note of it any more. Porthos takes the dirty sand of his life and heats it to gorgeous glass, while Aramis, who has so much, has been given so much, is only careening against people and places trying to find a version of himself he is satisfied with.

Aramis has not consciously set his mind towards living a life like Porthos has chosen, one of drive and passion and purpose, but he is running the beach every day, anyway. He is pressing at the edges of his physical capabilities and seeing how far he can push them. He is wearing self-discipline like new shoes and finding it growing comfortable sooner than he expected. Passion has never been something Aramis lacks, but passion directed to the benefit of someone other than himself or his friends and family is something entirely new. 

He wonders if it would suit him.

 

The second Tuesday in September the world changes in an avalanche of smoke and dust and twisted rebar. Aramis and Nicole and her boyfriend watch the news on the tiny television in the tavern’s office. Nicole’s hand is on Aramis’ shoulder, her fingernails digging into his skin as they watch the lower Manhattan skyline change forever, over and over and over. Aramis knows now that while the words may sound different in other languages, shocked, horrified grief is the same in every country on every face.

They are busier that night than he might have expected, and he tells Nicole so. “When our mother died,” she tells him, “my sister and I were in physical contact for almost a solid week. If we were on the sofa, our feet were touching. If we were at the table, we sat next to each other with our knees pressed together. We slept in the same bed like we hadn’t since we were children. Sometimes we just need other people, Aramis. Sometimes we just need to be sure they’re there.”

He’s been thinking of Porthos all day but doesn’t get time to call until his shift is over. Porthos answers the phone sounding _so tired_ and Aramis doesn’t even think before he speaks.

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

They’re quiet for a long time and then Porthos says, “Your mum called earlier. I forgot how much I missed her voice.”

“I forgot how much I missed yours.”

“You talked to me yesterday.”

“Porthos--”

“I know.”

Aramis feels his fingers twitch with how much he wishes he were holding Porthos’ hand. “Tell me what else my mother had to say.” 

They don’t mention the news again. They don’t talk of anything of consequence. When they say goodnight they say, “I love you" again. They call each other brother. When Porthos hangs up Aramis holds the handset to his forehead, his eyes closed and when the weight of the day begins to settle on him Aramis feels Porthos helping take the load.

 

Porthos has drawn the short straw and is staying on base for Christmas. Aramis tells his parents he doesn’t want them to pay for a ticket for him to come to visit them. “I’d be on a plane more than I’d be with you. If I’m here Nicole can take some time. She’s earned it.”   What he doesn’t say:   _If I’m here I can be as close to Porthos as possible. If I’m here I can press my fingers to my window and hope he feels it because he is so near._ He promises he’ll come the next year. He doesn’t know yet how impossible this promise is.

On Christmas Eve he goes to midnight mass by himself. He polishes the arm of the pew with his gloved hand and prays that God will keep Porthos safe while Porthos is keeping everyone else safe.

The next day he calls Porthos in Bayonne. Porthos wishes him a happy Christmas and tells him in extremely lewd detail all the things he wishes he could give Aramis as a gift.

“I’m… Porthos I’m not actually sure that last bit is physically possible,” Aramis is laughing and trying to ignore his really quite urgent erection.

“You haven’t seen me do the rope climb. It’s definitely possible.”

They’re both laughing now and after they trail off Porthos is quiet for a long time before he says, “I got my posting results. I’m being permanently assigned to the unit after the New Year. I made it.”   Porthos’ voice is quietly excited.

“I told you. I always told you!”  Aramis is trying, harder than he’s tried almost anything in his life, to be excited back. He is trying almost as hard as he’s trying to forget that Mission Héraclès launched at the beginning of December. That there are French aircraft already running bombing missions and that only a week has passed since coalition troops found training camps and ammunition in the mountains of Northern Afghanistan, mountains where Porthos, with his training, might find himself soon.

“Are you alright?”  Porthos asks.

“Porthos, really?  You’re active duty military, you could be on a plane tomorrow and you ask me if _I_  am alright?”

“Hardly tomorrow. I’m still in training. Officially.”

“Officially. I wish we were in Paris in our park. Or that you were here.”

There is a long silence on Porthos’ end and then, “I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“I… this is why I enlisted, Aramis. To help, to be there, to stand up."

“I think the U.S. Army-" 

"I’m not talking about the armies, Aramis. I’m talking about the soldiers. I’m talking about the civilians who never asked for a fight. I’m talking about the children… there were kids, Aramis. There are always kids. And families and parents. So no, I wish I were next to you, but I don’t wish I were there.”   

Aramis thinks about Porthos at fifteen, tall and ungainly, too many elbows and so young. But even then there were lines around his mouth, even then his eyes were old, and tired, and so wary. He thinks about what he would give to have been able to stand next to Porthos at age five, to take his hand and say 'I’m here. I’ll help. I’ll stand beside you.'

“No,” he tells Porthos. “You are exactly where you should be.”   

The next day Aramis makes a list of all the things he needs to do before he leaves for the Legion headquarters back in France. If Porthos is going to stand, Aramis won’t let him stand alone.

 

Just after New Year's Porthos calls to say he’s leaving. He can’t say where, he won’t say how long, but Aramis knows the only thing happening of any note is the final clean out of those caves near Tora Bora. The Americans are still hoping to find the massive weapons stockpiles they used to justify the battle. At mass he prays that Porthos is on desk duty at some general’s office, but he knows better.

He discovers that the tall lifeguard with the tattoos spends his winters repairing boats and sometimes comes in to the tavern for dinner. Aramis woos him but only fucks him once, his mind is other places and his lovers deserve better. He starts running harder. He begins to pause at arching doorways to do a pull-up. The harder he works the better he sleeps, and sleep is hard to come by these days.

 

The last week in January, not long after he’s told Nicole of his plans, Aramis pulls out another of his stockpile of rude postcards and fingers the paper for a few minutes. He taps the edges against his lips, closes his eyes, thinks of how to say this so that Porthos will understand. So he won’t worry. Porthos is taking care of so much right now; Aramis doesn’t want to add to that burden but he does need to let Porthos know.

_P-_

_I’m not sure when you’ll be home, it might be months and this will be a pointless message, but if it’s soon I wanted to make sure you wouldn’t worry if you didn’t hear from me. I’m leaving San Sebastián for Marseille at the end of the month and I won’t have an address or contact number for a while. I’m not sure how much free time I’ll have for reaching out, but I’ll be back in touch as soon as I know more._

_Be safe._

_-Aramis_

  

Early February comes bitter cold but Aramis still runs every day. He’s glad he’ll get to keep the sea in his life, but he’ll miss this particular bit of ocean. His footfalls are guiding his breaths, his breaths are guiding his thoughts, and his thoughts keep repeating, “Be safe. Be safe. Be safe."

The lights are on in the tavern when Aramis rounds the corner towards home and he can’t help but smile. Nicole is in and can be persuaded to turn her back while he grabs the orange juice from the cooler behind the bar. He comes through the door pulling his hat off and scrubbing at his hair.

“Light of my life, the promise of your face was the only thing keeping me going the last half hour!"

Nicole’s voice is amused. “Which one of us are you talking to?”

Aramis looks up from where he’s settling his jacket over a chair and sees the duffel on the floor, the boots on the brass rail. “Porthos?”

Porthos turns on his barstool to face him and the first thing Aramis sees is that he is angrier than Aramis has ever seen him. The second thing he sees is the livid red weal bisecting Porthos’ left eyebrow; it slashes his forehead nearly to his hairline and stretches down over his cheek. Miraculously, it has missed his eye.

“Porthos, your face! What-”

“Later.”  Porthos cuts him off, he is barely holding himself together. His voice is drum-tight when he says, “What the _fuck_ is this?”

He is holding the last postcard Aramis sent; it is gripped so tight in Porthos’ fingers that Aramis can see the skin pale under his fingernails. Aramis’ eyes flick to Nicole. She throws her hands up, “He was waiting outside when I got here. I offered him a drink and told him he had to talk to you. Now that you’re here, you can take it upstairs. Nothing could convince me to get mixed up in this mess. Not one damn thing.”

She passes Aramis the bottle of orange juice and heads into the back.

 

When they are alone in the flat Aramis looks at Porthos again and sees the fire in his eyes. Unbidden, Aramis sees Porthos with the same words the prophet Isaiah used for a righteous God, wrapped in fury like a cloak. Porthos is magnificent in his anger.

“Do you think I don’t know what’s near Marseille that would keep you out of touch for a while?  I don’t have your education, Aramis, but I’m not stupid. And you forget, I **know**  you. Couldn’t do anything by halves, could you?  Couldn’t just find a nice easy citizen reserve group?  No, you settled on the Foreign _fucking_  Legion. C’mon, tell me you didn't. Tell me I’m wrong, Aramis.”

Aramis can't argue that.

“’That's what I thought. What the fuck are you thinking?   _Are_ you even thinking?"

Porthos gestures towards the mark on his face. “You asked about this? A week or so after we got there they sent us to check the last of the caves. Some clever shit thought it would be for the best to make sure no one else got his ammo stockpile after he left, so he rigged it. In the explosion I got hit with burning wire and if it weren’t for my sunglasses I’d be standing here without an eye. And I got off easy, if I’d been a foot closer I wouldn’t be here at all!  No one was even shooting at us, Aramis. It wasn’t even a combat area!   Do you know how close I came with this?  How close you’ll come every day?”

“Yes!  God, yes. And I still _have_ to do it.”

“And while you were thinking about that did you stop to think about what that would do to your parents?  What that would do to me?  That is always the way with you, you never **think.** You don’t decide what’s important for me to know. Don’t you know? When it comes to you everything is important. Everything. Fucking. Matters.”   

“I’m not doing this for fun, Porthos.” Aramis is fighting back.  He didn't make this decision lightly and he won't have it treated like he did.

“Right, because the idea of being the dashing romantic hero never appealed to you.”  His voice is so dry it cracks.

“Contrary to what you believe, I did think about this." Aramis might have had second thoughts about sending the news in a postcard, but he has no second thoughts about what he's doing.  "And that’s exactly why I’m doing it this way. Any ordinary unit is likely to get me killed by an incompetent stranger. If I find the best, if I make myself part of them, then I know the best is at my back. It’s the closest I can come to having you there.”

“And you never stopped to think about what happens if you don’t get to be part of that?  You’re not the only one who wants the top postings. You say you think about things but you only ever think about the best way it could go for you. Fucking hell, Aramis. Why do you even have to do this at all?”

Aramis slumps at the kitchen counter, drops his head into his palms and digs his fingers into his hair. He sees, now, the fear driving Porthos' anger. “Porthos, I am terrified for you every day. I will do anything I can to make this fucking war over faster so I can stop dying a little whenever I read the newspaper. Anything.”

 _I couldn’t save you when you were so small and so alone,_ he thinks. _Maybe I can save you now._

“What if you’re not there?  You could end up anywhere!  You could end up in the asshole of the world shitting into a hole in the ground and hiking through jungles and never even hear the word ‘Afghanistan’ until your five years are up. What then?”

It's Aramis' turn to shout. “Then at least I won’t be sitting here serving gin and tonics to tourists and waiting to hear that you’ve died!  If I even get to hear about it!  How the fuck would anyone even know to tell me?”

“Your phone number is on all my fucking paperwork, you ass.”

“Do you want me to hold my breath until someone calls it to tell me you’re dead?  At least let me go do something useful." 

Porthos sags against the wall, deflating. He can see all of Aramis' reasons and knows that he'd have made the same choice. “I'm sorry for shouting,  I haven’t slept in almost two days, haven’t had a good meal in weeks. I got your postcard and got on a fucking bus at the crack of fucking dawn. I sat in a train at the border for hour with a bunch of goddamn tourists.”  His arms are crossed and his thumb is rubbing slowly back and forth across his own arm as he talks. "I stood in the cold in front of this fucking building until Nicole showed up and took pity on me and the whole time I was scared to fucking death. I'm just so goddamn scared. Just - I fuckin' mean it, Aramis. I don’t know what happens to me without you. Please. Don’t make me find out.”

“I’m in this to get us both back safe as soon as possible. I know it’s selfish of me, when there’s so much good you can do out there. But I have always been selfish when it comes to wanting you near.”

Porthos comes to stand next to Aramis, leans his head in until their temples are touching. “Fuck. I hate you sometimes.”

“I know. I love you, too."

The fight has gone out of Porthos, he's quieted now, settling in to this new knowledge of Aramis' future. While it's always been frustrating that Aramis makes decisions heedless of fallout or collateral damage, Porthos realizes that most of his anger this morning had been fear.  Fear that he'd show up to find Aramis gone, that he'd never get a chance to see Aramis' smile again.  Fear that this little bit of family and home he'd been lucky enough to find would be torn away.  Fear of the sound of Carolina's voice when she called to say something terrible had happened.  He'd taken that out on Aramis and Aramis hadn't backed down even an inch.  He'd kept taking until Porthos could see that Aramis' need to grow, to be more, to put something of himself into the world, would always win over Porthos' fear.  Until Porthos could see that if the idea of coming home to Aramis was enough to keep Porthos from recklessness, that the same would be true for Aramis.  “What unit are you trying for if you get past the first selection?” 

“Deuxième REP. Second Parachute Regiment.”

Porthos huffs a tired laugh. “Like I said, never anything by halves. You went and picked the most romantic and heroic of romantic heroes.”

Aramis rolls his forehead against Porthos, rubbing his nose against Porthos’ cheek and breathing in the familiar smell of his soap. “Missed you.”

“Missed you more.”

Aramis presses his mouth against Porthos’ lips. A kiss to say _There you are, I know you. I’ve been waiting for you._ A kiss that could only have come after the anger had passed.

Against Porthos’ mouth he murmurs, “Prove it.”

Porthos steps behind him, twines the fingers of each hand through Aramis’ on the countertop and leans in until he has Aramis pinned against the Formica. His mouth is right next to Aramis’ ear, voice quiet when he speaks.

“The trouble you put me through today and now you want me to fuck you?" Aramis can hear the incredulous smile in his voice.

Aramis’ breathing speeds up, the heat rising up the back of his neck. Surely Porthos must feel it against his own skin. He can't keep his own voice serious. “I wouldn’t turn it down.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, you’d love a nice easy tumble right now that all’s forgiven and we kiss and make up?”  Porthos brings one hand up to fist in Aramis’ hair and gives a tug. “Do you think we should _have_ a nice, easy tumble?”

Aramis shakes his head.

Porthos' hand slips from Aramis’ hair and toys at the worn collar of his t-shirt, fingers at a rip in the ribbing. “No, me either,” he says, and then with both hands Porthos grabs at the collar and pulls, and Aramis can hear the fabric tear down the middle of his back. He pushes the fabric down Aramis’ arms until it’s puddled around his hands. Aramis knows he could easily lift his hands and shake them free of the ruins of his shirt. Instead he finds himself stretching at the armholes with his forearms, feeling it pull around his wrists.

With one hand Porthos is pushing at Aramis’ track pants, shoving them past his hips, and with the other he’s pressing between Aramis’ shoulder blades, not with enough force to push him down onto the counter, but just enough to remind Aramis that this is not an occasion on which his directorial input is encouraged.

Porthos steps back to look at him and Aramis finds a coil of heat unfurling in his belly. Porthos is still fully dressed, his camouflage fatigues still buttoned and his jacket still on. But Aramis is bent slightly with his arms braced in front of himself, his back bare, his ass showing and he can’t remember ever having felt this exposed. His legs are covered and his shirt is still around his wrists but he feels utterly naked.

When Porthos makes a move towards the bedroom Aramis straightens slightly as if to follow him. Porthos turns back and puts his hand between Aramis' shoulder blades.

“No, mate, that’s not how this is going to work. Because I'm realizing that you've found a flat surface we haven't fucked on. Now, I am going to go into the bedroom to get the lube and so help me god, Aramis, you are not going to fucking move while I’m gone.”

“I didn’t-“ Aramis starts but Porthos’ hand slides up his back and around the front of his neck until it’s cupping his throat and squeezing lightly. He can feel the breath pushing at his windpipe and the only sound he makes is a high, needy whine.

“The longer I stand here the longer it's going to take me to get back with the lube.”

Aramis lets his eyes fall closed and Porthos says,  “Stay just like that. I want to still see that ass showing when I come back in here.”

He doesn’t move except to breathe, doesn’t even really think except to notice that his cock is throbbing. Porthos’ footsteps start back into the kitchen and Aramis can hear the flick of the plastic cap and knows that Porthos is slicking up his fingers. There's a pleased hum as Porthos takes in the sight of Aramis' ass on view. He feels one of Porthos’ hands slide up the back of his neck and into his hair, fingers fisting against his scalp and tugging. Two fingers of the other hand are suddenly pressing against his hole, pushing and sliding their way in with more force than Aramis is used to; his breath hitches.

Porthos releases Aramis’ hair and with that hand he grips at the join of Aramis’ neck and shoulder, pulling Aramis against him. He twists the fingers still inside Aramis and Aramis hisses at the stretch. In less time than Aramis would have expected he feels the fingers withdraw, and hears Porthos sliding his belt free. He can hear the fabric popping off the buttons. He can hear Porthos fishing a condom out of one of his big cargo pockets and then rolling it onto himself. The liquid popping sliding sound of lube-slick fingers against cock is enough to have Aramis dripping.

He can feel the burning heat of the head of Porthos’ cock against him, pushing. He tries to relax and breathe through it but when the hand at his neck is suddenly gripping his throat again Aramis knows that won’t be possible. “None of that. No disappearing in your head, I want you to feel every bit of this. I want this to be something we both remember while you're gone.”  It hurts, of course, but god it is so, so good. He always forgets how big Porthos is, how his hands aren’t the only part of him that’s meaty and broad.

The stretch is so strong he imagines he can feel it in his fingers and then there is the long slow drag of Porthos burying himself inside Aramis. Every second of it is perfect  and he wants to cry out but he can’t. The breaths he is managing to drag in are tight and spare and he can feel the blood thumping in his face. Porthos starts fucking him in earnest and for a second he loosens the hand at Aramis’ neck and Aramis drags in deep full breaths.

The rushing in Aramis’ ears clears and he can hear the solid slap of Porthos’ hips against his own.

“They’re gonna take everything, Aramis. They’re gonna to take years of your life. They’re going to take your spirit. They’re gonna to take your fucking name, even. But not this part, this part is for us.”

His hand tightens again and for a few seconds Aramis is calm, feeling the firm pressure of Porthos’ fingers, hearing sounds grow muffled. There’s a sharp pain behind his eyes and then he can feel himself struggling. He knows he’s never safer than when he’s with Porthos, but while his mind is calm, his body is reacting to the distress. His lungs are tight, pulling desperately and feeling the thin trickle of air getting past Porthos' grip, he’s starting to get dizzy. Somehow it is the perfect counterpoint to the insistent push and drag of Porthos fucking him.

Porthos releases his grip again and Aramis is coughing as he pulls in huge lungfuls of air. For a minute Porthos stills in his fierce thrusting and his fingers stroke over the skin of Aramis’ neck. Aramis is amazed that even as the barest feeling is beginning to come back into the tips of his fingers, the soft rubbing of Porthos’ fingers is sharp and defined. He’s high on the sudden oxygen and the endorphins are sparking through his limbs.

Aramis can feel Porthos press his forehead against his back, right between his shoulder blades. Porthos’ other hand is tight on Aramis’ hip. “I was so fuckin' scared, Aramis. I'm still so scared. But right now… right now I’m just reminding myself how gorgeous you are."

Aramis can feel Porthos pull back again, he knows what’s coming and god he wants it so much. Porthos tightens his hand once more, pulling Aramis’ head back against his shoulder. Aramis can feel Porthos kissing his face, his cheek, and the side of his neck between Porthos’ fingers. This time the lack of air is going straight to his cock. It’s pulsing, an angry red, and leaking onto his leg. Porthos must know how close he is because the hand on his hip snakes around and circles Aramis’ cock. Porthos isn’t stroking it, just holding and letting the force of his thrusts fuck it into his hand.

With his ruined shirt still hanging from his wrists, Aramis brings his fingers up to his own throat. He isn’t pulling at Porthos’ hand, just resting his fingers against it. He can feel the tendons in Porthos’ hand; can feel that they’re tight but not straining. Porthos isn’t even trying, and Aramis feels so safe with him. Even now Porthos is giving more than he takes. With that thought and the feeling that the room is slipping away from him, Aramis comes, spilling over Porthos’ hand.

Porthos lets go of his neck and the euphoric rush of air keeps Aramis coming, his cock jerking again and again. He can feel Porthos gripping both of his hips now; Aramis’ own come making the hold of one hand slippery. His pace is punishing but it’s only what Aramis needs and before long Porthos digs his teeth into Aramis’ shoulder and groans as he comes.

His head stays resting against the back of Aramis’ neck as he lays soft kisses wherever his mouth can reach. “You are the only family I have. Don’t die in some shithole where I can’t even say goodbye.”  And then he pulls out, laying a last kiss against Aramis’ shoulder.

The next thing Aramis feels is the drag of Porthos’ softening cock against his skin and he lets out a startled laugh as he realizes Porthos has just wiped himself off on Aramis’ right ass cheek.

“I love you, even with come on your ass.”  Porthos slaps his ass and turns, walking into the bedroom. He yawns extravagantly and scratches at his chest. 

"C'mon, let me clean you up and we'll go the fuck to sleep."

 

When Aramis crawls in bed, clean and no longer sticky, Porthos lets him get comfortable before wrapping himself around Aramis like a creeping vine. He noses as Aramis’ curls and kisses him on the crown of his head. “They’re gonna make you cut your hair, you know that right?”

“I know. That’s the least of my worries, don’t you think?”

Porthos doesn’t answer. He’s seen what can fracture a man under stress. He knows that the point of basic training is to build the recruits into a team, but first they must be broken down. He once watched a man snap under an inspection of the bathroom and rip a locker from the wall, heaving it at one of the NCOs. He knows why, of course. Because a man who will snap under latrine inspection is not a man you want at your back when the ammunition is real and the enemy is more than just a sadistic trainer. But he would be lying if he said he weren’t terrified at the idea of Aramis finding his own breaking point.

Aramis is a romantic, mischievous and charming, clever and witty. It’s not that Porthos hasn’t seen those qualities in soldiers, but he’s seen how little they are tolerated in training. The point of the training, of the uniforms, of the identical close-cropped hair, is an elimination of the soldier’s individuality. A soldier still thinking of himself as one man is a soldier who isn’t looking out for his team as well as he can. A soldier who thinks for himself is a soldier who isn’t following orders.

Aramis sparks like a live wire, full of energy and brightness and the world is brighter for it. Porthos is terrified that the next time they meet that spark will be gone.  He knows that only the thought of Aramis kept Porthos' own feet on the ground.  _Please,_  he thinks, _please don’t forget who you are._  

As Aramis is drifting off he feels another kiss against the crown of his head and thinks he hears Porthos say, “You have no idea how fuckin' terrified I am for you sometimes.”  Before Aramis can ask him what that means they’re both asleep.

 

They nap for hours, when they wake again the afternoon sun is slanting into the room and they can hear the kitchen team below them getting ready for the evening. Aramis turns in Porthos’ arms and trails his finger along the side of Porthos’ burn.

“You’ll have a dashing and rakish scar, no doubt.”

“Just what I always wanted.”

“I’m sorry. I have to do this.”

“I know. You were probably sorry as you were writing that card. But you still wrote it and you’re still going.”

There’s nothing to add to that and they’re both quiet for a few minutes, stretching their limbs and brushing their mouths against convenient skin.

“I have to work tonight. Come keep me company and I’ll have Christian fix you a plate. You said yourself you hadn’t had a good meal in weeks.”

“Yeah, alright,” Porthos says and kisses Aramis on the forehead. “Let’s go then, I’m starving. I missed lunch while I was busy fucking you stupid.”

“You did not fuck me stupid. 

“Musta been like that before we started, then.”

 

Nicole keeps Porthos’ glass full all night and in the kitchen Christian makes the things he knows Porthos loved on his last visit. There are dates and strong blue cheese wrapped in streaky bacon and roasted. Sardines and sun-dried tomatoes are speared onto a thin slice of crusty bread. Dumplings of salt cod mixed with potatoes and lemon zest have been breaded and fried and served with cold, marinated red peppers.

Aramis takes a moment to be jealous that Christian never made quite this effort for him, but then he sees Porthos, every inch the hero, and knows that no amount of fuss will ever be enough to thank him.

The night runs late and when it is over they fall into bed once more, so tired it’s a miracle they’ve managed to get their boots and jeans off. Porthos clutches him close again, one leg thrown over Aramis’ hip and the fingers of one hand splayed over Aramis’ heart.

 

In the morning Aramis stumbles out of his bedroom to see that Porthos has already made coffee and is flipping through a pile of papers. He fixes himself a mug and feels it warm his fingers. He smiles at Porthos as he drinks it down.

“What have you got there?”  Aramis asks.

“It’s the mail. It arrived in a big bundle and your postcard was on top. I grabbed it all as I was leaving. Glad I did, there’s another card here from your mum."

“From my mother?  What’s the occasion?”

Porthos smiles, tearing at the flap with his blunted nails. “Your mum is just the type to have a pile of cards to send people and just grab whatever one is on top. Figures I'd get the birthday ones. Some other poor soul probably gets all the Easter ones.”  

“Porthos, what  _are_ you talking about?”

“Just sometimes I get letters from both your folks that are on your dad’s fancy paper. But sometimes I get notes from just your mum, and they’re always on a birthday card.”  He shrugs as though this is all the explanation he’s ever needed.

There is a realization creeping up the back of Aramis’ neck but he doesn’t want to speak too soon. “Really. How often has this happened?”

“Dunno. Two, three times?  Yeah, this makes three.”

“When were the others?”

“One when I first got to FGI, I know because I hung it in my locker and by the time I left it was covered over by your filthy postcards. And the other I got right before Cl-... Right before you called that night, because the others thought it was my birthday on account of the card and they were going to take me out but I stayed and talked to you instead.”

Talked is a charitable description. In reality Porthos had listened for more than an hour to Aramis’ hitching breaths as he tried not to cry and think about how he had no idea what came next. Still, as far as Aramis can tell, Porthos seems to be missing the point. “Let’s see... That one when you were at training, that would be… first week of February?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“And then I know when that phone call was.”

“Yeah. Beginning of... Aramis?”

“Porthos?”

Porthos’ hand is shaking and the little spots of foil on the balloons on the front of the card are sending rainbows around the room in the afternoon sun. “Did you tell your mother that my birthday is the first week in February?”

“I promise you I did not. She asked me once when it was, and I told her I didn’t know. We agreed together that it didn’t seem like a question you wanted to have asked.”

“Then... why?”

“I’m assuming that she just chose a fitting date from the calendar.”

Porthos’ eyes are wide and shiny and rimmed with red. His voice is tight in his throat. “Why would your mother pick a random birthday for me just so she could send me cards?”

“Because she sends _me_ birthday cards. And it is right, in her world, that _both_ of her children should be celebrated.”

Porthos sags against the counter and Aramis puts one arm around his shoulders and his chin on Porthos’ head. They stand there, at the counter, Aramis holding Porthos, until Aramis’ coffee grows cold.

The next day, when Porthos is drowsing on the balcony, Aramis will check the little pocket calendar of feast days his mother always slips in with his Christmas presents. He will see that February 8th is the feast day of St. Jerome Emiliani, the patron saint of orphans and abandoned children. He won’t tell Porthos.

 

He’s officially recuperating before shipping back out so Porthos is still there for Aramis’ traditional Sunday call from his mother.

She’s thrilled to have them both there. Porthos thanks her for the birthday card and she just says she’s glad he liked it. They talk for a while about her garden, about the women at her church, about Mathieu and how he never really has slowed down. Porthos has forgotten how good it feels to talk to her. When she rings off she reminds him to be safe, to keep writing, to hug Aramis for her. She says she loves him. Porthos says it back.

When the phone call is over Porthos tells Aramis, “Your folks were the first happy marriage I ever saw, you know? They’ve made this great life for themselves and they still like each other as much as they love each other.”

Porthos looks out the window and shifts his weight from one foot to another. "Your house was like a dream, sometimes. It was always warm, always safe. Like you could walk in the door and just feel how much everyone in that flat loved each other. I never had a home, a family, like that and after that first dinner it’s all I wanted."

It doesn’t matter how many times Aramis reminds himself of what he knows, every time he hears it his breath catches as surely as if Porthos’ hand were still over his throat. And now here it is again. A marriage, a family, this is what Porthos wants. What he deserves.

From where he is laying on the bed Aramis says, as sure as he can, “You’ll have it, Porthos. Of that I have no doubt.”

Porthos turns to stare at him, and there is something unreadable in his expression.

“Come over here,” Aramis says. "I’ll let you fuck me stupid again.”

“Thought you said I didn’t.”

“Well, now you have a chance to try again. Perhaps this time you should try really putting your back into it.”  Aramis’ smirk is positively pornographic and Porthos wastes not one second in kissing it right off his face.

They fuck twice more before Porthos catches the train early Monday morning. Once is slow and sweet, facing each other and dragging it out until the sheets are sweat-soaked and Aramis is nearly begging. The second is little better than rutting their cocks together as Porthos holds Aramis up against the door to the flat. Both times Aramis tries to take in every second, storing them away like secret treasures. He can’t know that Porthos is doing the same.

Their last hug goes on far too long. They’re clutching at each other and whispering desperate wishes for safety and clear skies into the other’s skin. A week later those wishes and the memories of their moments together are stuffed into Aramis' backpack with two changes of clothes, pictures of Porthos and his parents and a few books.

 

Nicole offers to take him to the train. He’s an idiot, she says, but he’s got enough marching ahead of him without adding this walk. He hugs her until she says he’s cracking her ribs.

“Take care of yourself, Aramis. The military doesn’t reward individuality. This is going to be harder than you think.”

“I know. I can leave any time in the sixty day provisional period if it’s too much.”

She smirks. “Just don’t come back here. I’m tired of your face. Plus, I’ve already rented out the flat.”

“Nicole, you wound me.”

“You’ll just have to go stay with your boyfriend in Bayonne.”

“He’s not-“

“I know. You said.”  She pats his chest and says, “Good luck, Aramis.”

He kisses her on her forehead and walks up the steps, passing under the heavy arches and turning to sketch a salute at her from the top. She waves back and, not for the first time, Aramis marvels at his luck. Surely no one man deserves to have the riches of friends he’s had.

 

The ride is long and excruciatingly boring. Aramis tries sleeping but there is far too much noise and he is too keyed up, anyway. When they arrive in Marseille he unfolds himself from his seat, grateful to be stretching his legs out. If he was hoping for a break from the noise he won’t get it. Gare Marseille Saint Charles is a buzzing hive of people going in every direction and Aramis is glad when he is on the street finally, the traffic quiet by comparison.

He could take a bus to Aubagne then ask for directions, but instead he uses some of his savings and takes a taxi straight to the selection center. The gate is closed when he gets there but it’s clear this is where he should be. There are people already waiting; a quiet hulking American, a pale, nervous Brit who is drumming his fingers against his thigh, and a Brazilian with the broadest smile Aramis has ever seen. Aramis’ English is not great and his Portuguese is nonexistent so the four of them are trying to cobble together a conversation when the gate swings open and a weary, weathered Legionnaire comes out to ask what they want.

Each of them explains their intentions, no fancy words, just a wish to join. The Legionnaire checks their passports, stares at Aramis’ Argentinian passport with his French name, and then hands it back as though he’s not sure what Aramis is trying to pull, but he doesn’t much care. With one last glance over the four of them, the Legionnaire gestures for them to follow him and leads them inside. 

The gate swings shut behind them and for the first time he can remember Aramis wonders if he’s about to make a huge mistake. Only the thought that Porthos will soon be on a plane back to Afghanistan keeps Aramis’ feet moving forward. 

 _Oh, Porthos_ , he thinks, _I terrify myself sometimes, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First thing's first: The bit about the patron saint? That happened after I picked the date. I basically spitballed it on the calendar and then thought "She'd pick a saint's day." So I went to look up which saint's day that was and I almost cried. 
> 
> The battle of [Tora Bora](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Tora_Bora) was a real battle fought by coalition troops and it was a real cluster-fuck. No massive stockpiles, no huge armies lying in wait. I have taken one liberty; the last bits of clean-up happening into January of 2002 were undertaken entirely by US troops (officially). But I wanted to get Porthos over there and he does have mountain training so... yeah.
> 
> Likewise [Operation Héràcles](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mission_H%C3%A9racl%C3%A8s) was a real thing. It was a naval undertaking, mostly sending recon flights over areas deemed suspicious by satellite surveillance. In March of 2002 intelligence gathered by some of these flights led to the formation of Operation Anaconda to take a look from the ground. I mention this only because Operation Anaconda is possibly the best name for a gay porno that I've ever heard. Back me up on this?
> 
> I have taken only one gross liberty (that I know of). To my knowledge there is no train that will get you to Marseille from San Sebastián without you having to go to Paris and then back down. Normally I'm anal enough to check schedules so I can make sure I get timelines right (the trip between Bayonne and San Sebastián is actually two busses and a train, the busses run once an hour) but this time I just made one up out of wholecloth because it's fiction and sometimes I'm mad with power.


	7. Twenty-five - Calvi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, as if he has been saving them for last (he has), he puts up the pictures of Porthos. He’s sent Aramis a handful over the last couple of weeks, pictures from the desert and from the helicopter and from cramped tents. Pictures, always, of Porthos’ smiling face. Aramis traces the scar on Porthos’ eyebrow as though he can feel the ridges of it under his finger. The drawing done by Aramis’ mother comes last and has a place of honor right next to the picture of his parents. _There_ , he thinks. _There is my family._
> 
> He spares an extra touch to the picture of Porthos in his hoodie trying to look fierce and barely disguising the twinkle in his eye. _Hello_ , he thinks, _love of my life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as ever, to ceeturnalia for letting me pick her brain about everything from wank fantasies to how to end the chapter. And to the science and literary salon for giving me a smile every time I got frustrated.
> 
> Please be aware that the setting enters active combat zones and that there are brief descriptions of the violence and its aftermath. I'll put details in the end notes. It's nothing they wouldn't show on the evening news, but you know your own limits. 
> 
> And before you say "Dang, Melly. Surely training camp isn't that bad." Please know that I didn't make up any of those details.

There is a surprising amount of gardening involved.

That’s what Aramis tells people when they ask about his weeks at Aubagne, his month at the Farm, and the three months at Castelnaudary afterwards. He tells them about how they had to haul rocks to the edges of the paths, because he can’t bring himself to tell them about days without sleep, days without food, walking for hours. He tells the story of clipping the grass with scissors, because he knows that no one really wants to hear about the time the Brit he was tutoring in French answered a question incorrectly and they were forced to do sit-ups until Aramis puked on the floor of the classroom. Or how they had to clean it afterwards. He talks about endless hours picking up cigarette butts and never, ever, says that in July, when his section finished their _kepi marche_ after two days and 120 kilometers he took his boots and socks off and most of the skin on his right heel came off in the sock. The sole of his left foot was just one enormous blister.

When they’d handed him his enlistment paperwork with his _nom de guerre_ on it he’d still been enthusiastic about the notion. He knew that after a year he could petition to have his legal name put onto his papers instead and he could handle anything for a year. It wasn’t until later that day after having _Herrera_ barked at him as he ran and ran and ran that he’d stopped in his tracks and wondered if after a year he’d even remember who Aramis was. 

The haircut was harder than he thought it would be. It’s not that he was particularly attached to his hair; it’s hair, it grows. But standing in line behind four other men waiting to get their turn under the clippers, Aramis had suddenly become aware of exactly how much autonomy he had signed away. Since he turned sixteen, when he’d kindly but firmly turned down any more haircuts from his mother, he’d been in control of his hair.  It wasn’t something he’d even had to think about, that he controlled it was a given. Now it is just a part of a soldier's body, a body Aramis does not command. 

In the shower that night, the first night at Castelnaudary with his new short-shorn hair, his new name, his new home, he’d suddenly realized what Porthos had meant about them taking everything from him. He’d thought he’d understood, but how could he have ever understood until it happened?  He’d scrubbed his hand over his scalp and repeated in his head  _Aramis, Aramis, Aramis._ After that it's a ritual for him. Every time he gets in the shower he rubs at his hair like a totem and reminds himself of his name, his family, of the smell of Porthos' skin. He reminds himself of who he is outside of being a soldier, because he knows, he’s seen it in some of the officers, if he doesn’t he might someday get to the point where he  _can’t_.

About once a week the entire time he’d been at Castelnaudary Aramis had found himself curled in his bed with the sound of his own voice thumping in his head saying, “What have I done?  What have I done?”  Each time he’d woken and dressed and reported for _appeller_ with the words still repeating, but on the way into the cafeteria he’d passed the pictures of units with the civilians they’d evacuated, pictures of Legionnaires wearing the NATO _beret bleu_  distributing supplies, and he thought, “This. This is what I have done.”

By the time he’d requested his permanent posting he’d come to find a kind of odd peace in his complete detachment from personal authority. At first he’d been confused and more than a little contemptuous of the blind obedience he thought the officers were demanding, but after the second month he’d seen that what they wanted wasn’t obedience so much as it was trust. They’d been stumbling through the trees outside of the Farm on a three-day bivouac when Aramis had lost his mind for a moment and yelled, “Fuck this!  Fuck. This. We are **lost**. There’s not a one of us who knows where he’s going.”

The _caporal_ had jerked Aramis up by the straps of his pack, twisting them until they cut into the flesh under Aramis’ arms, and hissed into his face, “ **You**  don’t need to know where you’re going. All you ever need to do is trust that **I** know where **I**  am going. And as it happens, if you’d paid closer attention in the orienteering sessions last week you’d know fucking **exactly**  where we are because this is the same map we used for lectures in class.”  He’d let go of the pack straps and Aramis, unaware of just how much of his weight the _caporal_  had been holding up, fell flat on his face in the wet leaves.

The next morning they’d been set to turning out the cabin, moving everything in it outside, and Aramis had briefly thought “What possible reason could I have for needing to do this?” before he’d remembered that he didn’t need to have a reason, the _caporal chef_  who’d given the order needed to have a reason. Aramis just needed to do as he was told. There might come a time for rising above and standing out, but training wasn’t that time.

After that there were two stages to his life. There were all the times when he was Herrera: he trusted in orders, did as he was told, learned to disassemble his FAMAS then reassemble the weapon blindfolded, and believed that, yes, the Legion was his country. And there were the times in the shower when he pulled out a single memory and turned it over in his hands, scrubbed at his scalp, and remembered his own name. 

When they approved his permanent posting, near the end of his time at Castelnaudary it felt like all the work had paid off. His favorite roommate had also gotten his preferred posting, the jungle base in French Guyana. Together they had posed for pictures in their uniforms, regulation creased shirts, spotless boots, their stark white kepis on their heads, both of them clutching their stamped posting paperwork in their hands. Aramis had sent copies of the picture to his parents and to Porthos. His parents had been proud. Porthos had made a lewd comment about wanting to muss up that pretty uniform and Aramis had promised to take him up on it.

 

Now, two weeks later, Aramis is on the ferry to Corsica, where he will spend the next fourteen months learning to be one of the most elite special forces paratroopers in the world. And he is more glad that he would ever have expected that being a boy who liked boys _and_  girls in a Catholic high school taught him how to take a bit of his heart, his spirit, and hold it secret, keeping it only for himself. For himself, and if he is honest, for Porthos.

He settles in to the barracks at Camp Raffalli and unloads his pack into his locker. His uniform is hung neatly, each of the requisite creases still perfect to the untrained eye, but Aramis knows that he will need to press it again before the next inspection. He has become terrifyingly good at laundry. He takes out the picture his parents had sent him of themselves. They’re seated at a café table and grinning at the camera. Aramis misses them so much it hurts.

When that picture is secured to the inside of the locker he pulls out the pictures from Nicole, just a couple of her and her boyfriend looking at his favorite barstool with mock sad faces. They missed him, they said, but knew that he was doing the right thing.

Finally, as if he has been saving them for last (he has), the pictures of Porthos. He’s sent Aramis a handful over the last couple of weeks, pictures from the desert and from the helicopter and from cramped tents. Pictures, always, of Porthos’ smiling face. Aramis traces the scar on Porthos’ eyebrow as though he can feel the ridges of it under his finger. The drawing done by Aramis’ mother comes last and has a place of honor right next to the picture of his parents. _There,_  he thinks _. There is my family._

He spares an extra touch to the picture of Porthos in his hoodie trying to look fierce and barely disguising the twinkle in his eye. _Hello,_ he thinks, _love of my life._

 

At the end of his first week on Corsica, Aramis is exhausted. Not as much as he’d been at Castelnaudary, where the days had started at three in the morning and ended at noon two days later, but with a bone-deep weariness that comes with taxing his brain as hard as he’s taxed his body.

He hadn’t expected learning to parachute to be easy, it isn’t actually as simple as falling, but as with so many things in the Legion, he’d underestimated the scope and how much other work there is to do as well. They’ve essentially been busted back to fresh recruits and on top of the classes there is cleaning, marching, trudging up hills only to run back down.  

So when Friday evening comes and their last roll call is finished he is half-tempted to just fall asleep until he is no longer hearing commands every time he closes his eyes. But he knows if he does he’ll kick himself later. This is his first chance in almost five months and he’s not going to waste it.

Aramis takes his calling card down to the pay phone in the hall and calls the number he has from his last letter. The voice that answers is American, friendly, and promises to go get Private du Vallon. Aramis drums his fingers against the seam of his trousers and waves at passers by in the hall as he waits. Eventually he hears the sound of approaching feet and then a horrible thumping noise and a stream of creative cursing in French. 

“Fuck. Fuck I dropped the phone, sorry. Sorry. Private du Vallon speaking.” 

Aramis sags into the wall and tears prick at the corners of his eyes. Oh god he’s missed that voice. He tries to hear it when he reads the letters that arrive battered and beaten but god, it’s not the same. 

“Hey.” 

He swears he can actually _hear_  Porthos’ grin spread across his face.  Porthos’ voice is fond and loaded with all the same emotion as his own. “Aramis." 

“If you break that phone they’ll take it out of your pay.”

“If I break the phone they ought to have bought a better phone. Are you at Raffalli?”

“I am. We got in last week but this is my first evening of liberty. The whole week’s been running.”

“Fuck, there’s always so much running. How were the jumps?”

Aramis leans his arm on the top of the phone and props his head on his hand. “We only got one. Most of the week has been spent reminding us that we’re not done proving we belong here. But we finally got a jump just this morning. It was fine once I got out of the plane.”

Porthos laughs and says, “I know that feeling.”

“The poor bastard next to me was wearing glasses and when he leaned out the door the wind snatched them right off his face and blew them back around behind him. Good job he had them on a strap or he’d have lost them completely. I just stood there thinking that it was possibly the dumbest thing I’d ever done in my life. That there wasn’t a force on Earth that would get me out of that plane any way other than after it landed. And then…”

“Yeah?”

“I heard your voice.”

Porthos’ voice is a quiet rumble. “Mine?”

“I remembered what you said as you were leaving San Sebastián, that you were sure there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do, that if I was going to do this stupid-ass thing I should actually  **do**  it. And as I got to the door of the plane I could hear your voice in my head clear as day saying 'Might as well. It’s a long way to go just for a haircut.’   Then I just stepped out.” 

“Who knew I was so inspirational, eh?”

Aramis is perfectly serious for a moment. “You’ve always have been to me.”

Porthos sounds embarrassed as he says, “Yeah. Well. You seem to have made it to the ground okay.”

“I did. I nearly broke an ankle hitting the ground but I managed to pass it off and put it up after we did the run back to base.”

“So much fucking running. What’s next for you then?”

“More of the same. And weapons specialties. My performance tests got me in to sniper training.”

“‘Course they did. Flash bastard.”

“Once they’ve settled specialties they’ll start sorting the companies, sections, and teams.”

“How many in a team?”

“Seven. Then it’s rapid insertion training.”

“Don’t they know that insertion is best when it’s nice and slow?”

Aramis groans. “You’re terrible.”

Porthos’ chuckle is warm and achingly familiar. “You know you love it.”

“I really, really do.”

They don’t have much longer but they talk about everything they can. Even if it’s been said over and over in letters they just want to hear each other’s voices. Aramis feels more like himself than he has in weeks, even in the shower when he says his own name like a litany. When they finally hang up it’s a battle of “You first,”  “No you first,” as though they are love-struck teenagers.

Eventually Porthos says,  “I love you, you know?”

“I know. But it’s nice to hear it. Love you, too. Miss you.”

“Miss you. I’ve got to get back on duty but we’ll talk soon, yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

There are mutual exhortations to be safe, to take care, to not do anything stupid. Neither of them can really promise any of those things, but they say them anyway.

It’s late by the time Aramis makes his way back to his room, and as it’s their first weekend of liberty on the island, he’s mostly alone. It brings him up short to realize that except for the two-minute showers in Aubagne, this is actually the first time he’s been alone in almost five months. His heart thumps fast in his chest as he strips to his boxers and climbs into his bunk.

He won’t, doesn’t dare, take himself in hand, despite how much he wants to. There isn’t an official punishment if he’s caught but the unofficial ones are merciless. Instead he rolls himself until he’s on his belly and starts to recall every word Porthos said just to remember his voice. If Aramis concentrates he can feel Porthos’ hand on him, stroking him from his neck to the small of his back.

It’s a choice they’ve both made, to have the lives they do. To have lives that mean they aren’t together tonight and can only say ‘I love you’ through the phone. But that doesn’t stop Aramis from dreaming of the things they would do if he had Porthos in this room with him.

Better yet, fuck this room, Aramis doesn’t know when he’s going to get time alone again and he’s going to make the most of his fantasy life. If he’s going to imagine Porthos touching him, stroking him, slipping his fingers into the crease of Aramis’ ass to tease him, Aramis is going to imagine it in the biggest possible bed with the softest possible sheets.  

He’s going to want a sea of pillows so Porthos can pluck one and slide it under his hips, leaving Aramis to look as though he’s presenting his ass for Porthos’ enjoyment. Which, of course, he is. He’s going to imagine that there’s no danger of interruption, that they have all the time in the world.

Aramis hitches his hips against the mattress, feeling the fabric of his boxers dragging against the skin of his cock as it swells at the thought of Porthos touching him. There would be no one else even nearby so Aramis could make all the noise he wanted. He could thrash and plead and beg. What would he beg for?  More, always more. There’s never enough for him, but somehow Porthos can always make it seem like there’s almost too much.

The thought of Porthos slicking his fingers and opening Aramis achingly slow has Aramis fully hard and clenching his fingers in the sheets of his bunk. He’d beg, absolutely, he’d beg for more and then beg for Porthos to fuck him. But with all the time in the world Porthos wouldn’t give in, he never does if he can help it. Porthos would torture him with two fingers now, so slow, and Aramis can feel the sweat on his forehead.

With the memory of his voice so fresh in Aramis' head it takes no effort at all to imagine Porthos speaking to him in that husky low tone he gets when he’s tormenting Aramis. He can hear it now, “So gorgeous for me how much you want it. I’m going to give you three now and it’s still not going to be enough, is it?  Poor Aramis, still not full enough, are you?  You need more. Want my cock, yeah?”

Aramis bites down on his lip to keep himself from whimpering that yes, yes he does, so much. He always needs Porthos and there’s never enough. Porthos isn’t really here, and anyone could be in the hall. Instead he imagines himself pleading to be fucked and hearing Porthos laugh and deny him. How would he say it?  Would he tell Aramis to wait?  Would he go for another finger or - Oh god. That’s it. All of them. All of  _it._

“You want that?  You want me to open you all the way?  You do. You want me to keep working you open until you’re finally full enough. Oh, Aramis. I do believe you’re asking for me to put my whole hand into you.”

It’s nothing Aramis would ever ask for in the real world and so the fantasy is even sweeter, sending sparks down his spine and making him writhe against the sheets. He’s feeling the tug and drag of the fabric against himself and bracing himself with his toes as he grinds his hips, fucking into the bed.

The sheet is laying low on his back and Aramis imagines it’s Porthos’ hand. It’s just resting there, keeping him still and calm, keeping him from flying apart when three fingers become four, leaving only to pour more lube over the spot where Aramis is stretched so wide.  He can imagine Porthos’ words again, telling him how beautiful he is, how good he is, how incredible he looks just fucking taking it like this.

If this were real he’d want it to take forever, and Porthos would give him that. Porthos would stretch him until Aramis couldn’t feel anything but the slip of his fingers, the slide and stroke of them, the twist of them inside him. Porthos would tell him how good he is, how much Porthos loves that Aramis will let him do this. He bites down on his lip and tries to hear the words in his head.

Aramis remembers the way he feels every time they try something new, that feeling of peace that settles low in his belly when he remembers this is Porthos, he trusts Porthos with his life, his body, his heart. It would be that way with this as well, that tendril of calm that uncoils in him and lets him sink into the moment. He imagines his entire world coming down to just the feeling of Porthos’ knuckles twisting against him. The heat of Porthos’ palm on his back, 

With every hitch of his hips against the mattress Aramis can feel himself getting closer, he can feel the sweat on his back now, between his shoulder blades, he imagines Porthos licking at it and murmuring to him how good he is for being so still. Even in his fantasies it’s only Porthos he would trust with this and it’s only Porthos’ hand he can imagine pressing into him, tucking his thumb against his palm and rocking the heel of it along the rim of his hole.

He stops and presses harder into the bed, dragging his cock until it aches and imagines the intensity of the stretch as the widest part of Porthos’ hand finally presses into him. Aramis thinks about how it would look, the sweat pooled in his lower back, Porthos’ skin against his own, the obscene stretch of him around Porthos’ wrist, and he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out.

What would Porthos say to him?  Would he talk about how gorgeous Aramis is when he’s all open and trusting like this?  Would he talk about how hot Aramis is inside, how slick and tight he feels around Porthos’ hand?  Surely Porthos would talk about how hard Aramis is, how he’s sure Aramis is soaking the sheets. Then, oh yes, then Porthos would talk about what he’s doing with his fingers, curling them down against his palm until he can twist his fist and send bursts of pleasure through Aramis' entire body.

He would do that, of course, he’d get his fist right against the spot in Aramis' body that always makes him scream, and he’d rock against it so gently that Aramis would find himself crying and begging all at once. Aramis’ fingernails are digging into his palms now, even through the sheets, and he’s so fucking close. He’s needed this for weeks and he’s almost there now.

In the end what it takes is Aramis hearing Porthos’ voice in his head saying, “The only time I’ve ever seen you more gorgeous is when you come. Come for me now, let me see that face again.”  With that Aramis’ hips are stuttering into the wrinkle of the sheets bunched under him and his cock is jerking against the inside of the fly of his boxers; his orgasm runs through him like a train.

In the quiet afterwards he imagines that the rasp of his own breath against his pillow is Porthos saying “Shhhh. Shhhh.”  Even after he strips his boxers off and rinses them in the sink and curls back into his bunk he can still feel Porthos’ hand low on his back. He imagines them twined together as he falls asleep.

 

The rest of the summer passes in a blur until Aramis wakes up one day to realize this is his life. He’s chosen it and he finds he rather likes it. The packs get heavier and the marches get longer but he likes the sense of accomplishment. It turns out he’s the top sharpshooter in his group of volunteers and he learns to view his weapon and skill as an extension of his officer’s orders.

He learns to jump in the rain, in the wind, in the cold and the dark. He learns to land on mountains and fields and in the water. The more he learns about insertion tactics and stealth infiltration the more he appreciates how quietly Porthos moves.

His team comes together. The detonation expert is Pereira, a Brazilian so skinny Aramis isn’t sure how he keeps his belt from wrapping around twice. Aramis is still sorting out the names of rest of them, but Pereira is incredibly talkative and Aramis finds himself remembering his name just so he can yell it as a preface to “shut the fuck up.”

He isn’t the only Francophone and for that he’s grateful. He’s sharing that burden with Wade, big and quiet and missing his family in Senegal. Together they are responsible for stepping up the fluency of their  _binomes_ : Pereira, as well as a Russian, a Pole, the mouthy kid from Manchester, and a dark-eyed boy from India that no one is entirely certain is old enough to be here, but he’s so good with his rifle and there isn’t a motor he can’t fix, so none of them says a word.

They spend evenings together working on French language skills, singing, and telling stories, at least fifty percent of which are complete bullshit, even Aramis'. Especially Aramis’.  About four months after they arrive they do their first water jump and amphibious infiltration onto the beach. That night Wade talks about growing up on a fishing boat and how much he’d missed the sea on his skin. It’s the first time Aramis has heard him put together more than four words in a row that weren’t a response to an order or an instruction to one of his language students.

Aramis recognizes in his tone the longing for a place that has seeped into the bones of its people and he envies that kind of home. Then he remembers that here they have no nationalities. Here, they are told, the Legion is their country.

There are evenings in town when they’re not on watch, but as often as not Aramis takes it as a chance to spend a few minutes alone. It’s a rare and precious commodity and he doesn’t waste it. Every Wednesday, if he isn’t cleaning, cooking, marching, chanting, or jumping out of a plane, he calls Porthos. Sometimes it’s long, sometimes it’s brief, sometimes Porthos isn’t there either and they go weeks without speaking. But every time they do it’s the same wonderful click of his heart opening and the reminder that he has this wonderful man in his life and oh, he is so in love.

Every shower he still reminds himself of his name, every night he still touches is pictures of his parents and Porthos, every time he thinks  _I love you._

The weather cools and they learn quickly the importance of good gear and asking the experienced troops for advice on keeping warm. The Russian is called Karpov and the first time Pereira gripes about the cold Karpov lays into him for fifteen minutes about being a candy-ass who needs to quit whining for his mommy. There’s an uneasy truce by the time they get back to base but things aren’t really smoothed over until they join together in picking on Aramis for something.

When Christmas rolls near Karpov and Kaminski take leave of their sense and decorate the outside of their lockers. It is the only thing upon which the Russian and his Polish nemesis have  _ever_  agreed and even that is fleeting as the  _caporal chef_  is nearly spitting with anger. In the end they not only have to take the decorations down, the entire company gets extra time cleaning before they’re released that weekend. No one is amused.

In the long tradition of the Legion, their Christmas dinner is with their commanding officer. No doubt his wife and family wish he were home, but Capitaine Jarreau sits with them for hours listens to them talk about their plans. Everyone lies. Half the men say they are headed for church, the other half say they’re going to call their families. In reality the better part of them are going to get drunk and play cards. Karpov is on watch but he says for his first holiday away from his girlfriend and their son he’s fine keeping busy.

Aramis has been nearly vibrating for days. In a hotel in town his parents are waiting to have a late supper with him.  By the time he finally makes it to them he’s sure they will be asleep. Instead they’re up and waiting, and Aramis gets to hold his mother as she cries. She touches where his hair is so short and she hugs him again, whispering what he knows is a prayer into the fabric of his collar.

Their visit is vanishingly brief but it’s long enough for them to give him the multitool he’s been wishing for since he arrived in July. There are books as well, and new pairs of waterproof socks. Before they leave on Boxing Day he gives them a quick tour around the island and shows them as much of the base and garrison as he can. As they’re dropping him at the gate his mother slips him one last box. 

“We miss you more than we can say,” his father says. “We know you won’t be able to pick it up every time, but at least we can tell you when we’re thinking of you. I know they weren’t allowed during training, but now…”   Inside the box is a bright blue mobile phone.

Aramis hasn’t been this excited to set eyes on something since he got back from Spain and saw Porthos at the end of the jet way. “Is it - can I?”

His mother’s voice is warm. “We’ll take care of it, call when you can.”   He wants to ask but he doesn’t even need to. “We got you both one, I don’t want to go months without hearing your voices again. I don’t know when his will get to him, but there’s a card in his box with all the important numbers.”  

There’s a card in Aramis’ box as well. His parents’ number is at the top, below that in his mother’s sweet looping handwriting is Porthos’ name and number. He hugs his parents so tightly he’s worried he’ll hear stitches pull in his mother’s coat but he can’t help it. In his world he spends every day clinging to the last bits of himself with the ragged edges of his fingernails and they have thrown him a rope.  _Here_ , they have said,  _here is the voice of your family for you to tuck in your back pocket._

Porthos isn’t at the desk that night when Aramis calls, but even being able to say Porthos’ name with the new phone pressed to his ear brings him a smile. He knows at some point his parents’ gift will get there, and so will the card Aramis has sent. It’s another filthy post card and on the back he’s sketched a parachute above the words “Happy Christmas from somewhere over Corsica.”  It’s sentimental and silly but he’s not above that. Not for Porthos.

 

In the end the gift gets to Porthos near the end of January but they don’t actually connect until the beginning of February. The conversation is nearly inane with how happy they are just to be able to talk with a modicum of privacy. Aramis asks Porthos about his plans and hears about a day filled with irritating paperwork about the mission they’d completed the week before and a chess tournament he’s having with the Americans.

“You play chess?”

“I do now. I made one of the American radio officers show me. Once you start seeing the tactics and plan your strategies, it’s not so hard.”  Aramis knows this means Porthos is wiping the floor with men who’ve played for decades longer than he has. He feels a fierce pride. This is his best friend, and he is made of magic.

Aramis says he’s thinking of joining Pereira out on the town. He hasn’t been out drinking with the men from the unit in a couple of weeks and he misses their easy company. Even the ones who hate each other are sliding into a kind of fraternal bitching. “So yeah, maybe a few drinks. If I can keep Pereira from going off with one of the local girls as soon as we walk in.”

“Does he at least leave some for you?”  Porthos is laughing and Aramis imagines his dimples flashing.

“I do alright on my own.”  And he does. Aramis loves women and the women can tell. He’s had a few delightful evenings, but nothing more than that. They’ve been nice, but nothing worth fighting the demands of his erratic schedule and near-constant exhaustion. He misses the thrill of falling in love, but that’s not in the cards right now.

“I bet you do. Might be you’re in for that kind of night.”

Aramis laughs. “It  _is_ terribly cold here. I could use a warm body next to me.”

Porthos’ voice drops just a little. “Oh you’d like that. A nice warm stretch of skin right up against you, a little hot breath on your neck.”

“Fuck’s sake, Porthos. I’m standing in front of the barracks, have pity.”

“You just hate how well I know exactly what you like.”  Aramis really, really does.

“I am going to get off the phone now. And then I’m going to take a moment to cool down before I go join my team in town.”

“A moment to cool down?  Is that what you’re calling it?”

Porthos’ laugh is filthy.

“Hey,” Aramis’ voice is suddenly serious. “Did you get another card?”

“Yeah, it got here with the box. She must have sent it weeks ago just in case.”

“Happy Birthday, Porthos.”

“It’s not really.”

“It is to us.”

“I love you, brother.”

“I love you.”

After they hang up the quiet settles in around Aramis thinks about Porthos talking about warm breath on his neck and Aramis can feel a shudder work its way down his back that has nothing to do with the cold. The company is out, he’s not expected for a bit. He turns back to the building and heads for his room.

There isn’t the time or privacy for anything drawn-out but Aramis is able to duck into a bathroom stall with a handful of tissues and a tube of hand lotion and grab frantically at the erection he’s had since Porthos said the words ‘hot breath on your neck’. He strokes himself, listening to the obscene slurp of his hand slipping over the lotion and cycling through some of his favorite fantasies.

He imagines the soft blue-eyed boy from his seminary class spread out beneath Aramis with his pale skin luminous in the moonlight. The thought of moonlight sparks a memory of Emilia and Aramis bites back a groan at the thought of her staring into his eyes as she fucks her biggest toy into his mouth so it’ll be slick for his ass. At the idea of stretching his mouth around a cock Aramis thinks of Porthos’, gorgeous and thick enough to make his jaw ache. It would take two mouths to give it the service it deserves.

And there it is. He can feel the orgasm untwisting itself at the base of his spine at the image of himself and his roommate from Aubagne on their knees before Porthos. He’d always been so eager to please, that boy, Porthos would love that. He’d stroke their hair and tell them how good they were, what a good job they were doing for him. It’s there like a snapshot, Porthos in uniform and the two of them naked at his feet, and then Aramis is choking back a shout and filling the tissues as he slaps his other hand against the wall of the stall to steady himself.

When his breathing comes back to normal Aramis gingerly tucks himself back into his boxers, buttons up his fatigues, and flushes the soiled tissues. He washes his hands and slicks cold water over the back of his neck with his palm and hopes to god that none of them will be able to see it on his face.

Aramis finally gets to the bar twenty minutes after they’re expecting him and though he’s sure the reason he’s late is obvious from his expression, but for once Pereira is blissfully silent.

In March, after a year with the Legion, Aramis petitions to get his nom de guerre replaced with his own name. He’s an exemplary soldier and there’s no reason not to grant it. His paper is stamped and that night he buys the first round at the bar. He tells jokes and stories and flirts with the bartenders, both the man and the woman, and feels more like himself than he has since he signed his selection papers.

It takes almost three months for everyone to get used to this “new” name, but it’s worth it to hear rare praise from his commanding officers being addressed to the same name his mother uses when she is proud of him. He knows Porthos is worried that without the dividing line between his Legion name and his real name Aramis will not be able to stop himself from disappearing into soldiering. But Porthos doesn’t know about the secret part of himself that he’s never even let the Legion see. The part of Aramis’ heart that belongs to Porthos will always be only for them.

Porthos worries that worries that the Legion will pull him out to sea, but it is Porthos himself who keeps Aramis safely anchored.

Fall that year brings Aramis’ second cross-island march. He thinks that only a group like the Foreign Legion could hold dear and close to their hearts both the tradition of warm Christmas dinners with the top brass, and the tradition of a 200km march across Corsica with fifty-kilo packs. He barely remembers his first year’s march. It took the full four days and they’d nearly lost Rogers to dehydration and heat stroke. This year it’s easier, but still the last day his legs are like cement and he can feel at least two toenails ready to separate from the nail beds.

Two months later, when he is made an official member of the regiment in an anticlimactic moment in the camp’s main office, those toenails have almost grown back. Not many of them have made it through the full sixteen months, but he’s proud to see that the men of his team are still here.  

Their hangovers the next morning are legendary.

 

In late February the regiment gets word that they are due for their rotation into the UN’s forces stationed in Kosovo. The first company, urban warfare specialists, is an easy decision. Aramis’ company specializes in sniping and demolitions so they’re going as well. When the plane takes off he realizes it’s the first time he’s been off Corsica in almost two years.

Together Rogers and Karpov are discussing with a nearly disturbing relish the possible combat they might get pulled into. Rasool is checking and rechecking his gear and not saying a word as Pereira talks his ear off about the possibilities that come with a new group of local girls to charm. The other two are both asleep; Wade with his head lolling backwards, Kominski with his weapon clutched to him like a particularly lumpy teddy bear.

Aramis closes his eyes and thinks that this is wasn’t his motivation for joining up, but if he’s honest with himself he knows this is a better way to spend his service. Things in Kosovo have been quiet recently; with the UN’s KFOR forces devoted more to rebuilding bridges, literal and figurative, than to any actual combat.

For the first two weeks their duties aren’t even as interesting as urban reconstruction projects. They drive from one remote village to another checking the state of tensions, and they stand guard on street corners where their uniforms will be particularly conspicuous and hopefully deter any real mischief.

The second week in March it all goes to hell.

There’s a shooting in a small town, a Serbian teenager is killed, and the next day four Albanian children run into a river in a nearby small town and only one of them makes it back out. In the end the UN investigation finds no truth in the survivor’s story about having been chased there by two Serbs with a dog. But that comes too late to stop the violent standoff between thousands of Serbs and Albianians on a bridge across that same river.

Aramis and his team are among the troops who hold the center of the bridge to keep the two crowds apart. His romantic notion of letting the innocent hide behind him while he fights back the villain does not survive the first volley of grenades from one end of the bridge and the answering submachine gun fire from the other end. In all his training Aramis hasn’t spent much time getting ready for the idea that there might not be a clear-cut right side, an obvious good guy.

The first time he has to launch a tear gas canister into the crowd he realizes that nothing could ever have prepared him enough.

By the end of his first day he has reached true Legionnaire status. His superiors send orders, he trusts them, he obeys. He has stopped trying to process the emotion, the politics, the doubts. In a moment of hysterical clarity he thinks the nuns would be proud of him.

When the standoff finally ends there are eight people dead and hundreds of wounded. Several of the wounded are peacekeeper troops, including Rasool, who will be out of commission for at least a week while the gash on his thigh heals. The rest of his company are among the last out of the area, and by the time he makes it back to the base Aramis is so tired he falls asleep in the shower.

If he expected the rest of the team to be as subdued over their first brush with real violence he is sorely mistaken. Rogers and Karpov spend breakfast retelling every detail they can remember, and contemplating with glee what the new day might bring.

What it brings is an emergency influx of UN peacekeeping troops including a huge contingent of Americans. By the time his company makes it back out on to the streets they are serving mainly as guides, showing new units where the hotspots are, explaining the nuances of the situation. They are the instructors for  _Kosovo’s Gone To Shit 101._

 

They’ve been there two months when Rogers announces that he’s heading out to meet Pereira for a night out, and to get his hands on someone warm and willing. “Time for me to call the shots for a change,” he says and god, Aramis can’t think of anything more exhausting. He’s been on edge and making life-or-death decisions for weeks now, and the idea of spending an evening seducing a stranger and then having to ‘call the shots’ makes him feel like he’s just finished the march across Corsica again.

He waves Rogers off. “Go forth and conquer. Take Kominski and Karpov with you.”

“I’m taking Karpov, Kominski’s sitting with Rasool playing cards.”

“Where’s Wade?”

“Passed out in front of the TV in the lounge. He’s watching CNN. Like we aren’t close enough to the action.”

Aramis flops back on to his bunk and drapes his arm over his eyes. “Have a marvelous time, don’t catch anything they can’t cure with penicillin.”

“Think I might try for a virgin. No worrying about that kind of shit with a virgin.”

Rogers, Aramis decides, is a piece of shit. And if he weren’t so good at explosive ordinance disposal that it’s almost like the bombs whisper disarming instructions in his ear, Aramis would be tempted to smother the fucker in his sleep.

When the dorm room is quiet again, Aramis fishes his mobile out of his locker and dials Porthos. It takes five rings and Aramis realizes he’s completely forgotten to do the time zone conversion for wherever Porthos is these days.

“Mmmf. Du Vallon.”

“Hey.”

“Aramis! Fuck, are you okay?  I’ve seen your company on the news.”

“Yeah. I’m fine. It’s been a shit time but I’m fine. I miss you.”

“I miss you more.”

“God, Porthos, that is just not possible.”

Porthos knows that tone of resigned exhaustion so well. His laugh is a low rumble down the line and Aramis feels something in his heart loosen. “Poor Aramis.”

“I’ll thank you not to patronize me or I’ll send the rest of your company the picture I have of you with that stupid haircut.”

“I was seventeen.”

“Were you also blind, drunk, and wielding hedge trimmers?   Because that would be the only excuse for that hair.”

Porthos laughs loud and long and Aramis wants to cry with how much he loves this man.

“I’m glad to see you’re still in there.”

“Always.”  As long as Aramis has Porthos he will never disappear. “And where are you while I’m dying of a combination of boredom and stress in Kosovo?”

“France, actually. We’ve rotated back for some training and a break. Heading back out in June.”

They talk about missions and skirmishes and how blasé they’ve both become about jumping out of aircraft at terrifying heights. Aramis pauses for a moment to wonder at how far they’ve come from conversations about serving drinks to tourists and bad customers at the boucherie.

In the end the call finishes like they all do, it doesn’t matter who says which words.

“Be safe.”

“You be safe.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

With the weariness of the last weeks lifted a bit by Porthos’ voice, Aramis finds that he is not as tired as he’d thought he was when talking to Rogers. For a brief moment he wonders if he should join them at the bar but balks again at the thought of a night out trying to pull and then the endless list of questions after that. What will she like?  What should he do? Is this the right spot?

No, for all he loves the thrilling heat of a bed partner, he’s unlikely to find what would best suit him tonight; a firm, guiding hand that would let him completely shut off. Tonight all he wants is the opposite of all he has to be.

Aramis is amused for a second by the notion of walking up to a stranger and saying, “Excuse me, would you mind just using me tonight and not requiring any thought or decisions on my part?”   But hard on the heels of that thought he hears Porthos’ voice in his head, as though he has heard the words spoken and is now recalling them, “Come put your mouth on me and don’t move.”  Aramis palms his cock through his fatigues and hisses at the touch.

He pictures Porthos in the overstuffed armchair in the lounge of the dorm at Calvi. The trousers of his fatigues open; his shirt rucked up just enough that when Aramis has his mouth around Porthos' cock the skin of his belly is warm against Aramis’ forehead. He imagines the grip of Porthos’ hand in his hair, stopping him if he even tries to use his initiative. Pulling him back if he tries to slide his lips down just to feel it growing hard in his mouth.

Aramis can almost feel Porthos’ voice like a purr against his skin. “I said put your mouth on me. I didn’t say suck me, I didn’t say lick me. You’ve been thinking two steps ahead so much, but tonight you can let that go. Tonight that's someone else's job, stay where you’re put, open your mouth, and that's all you need to do to be perfect.”

The sigh Aramis lets out in the fantasy is mirrored in the one he lets out alone in his bunk, all the responsibility just falling from him like a discarded coat. He just wants to be good, to do just as he’s told and not have to worry about it all going wrong.

He can almost feel Porthos’ fingers carding through his hair and hear the praise dripping onto his shoulders. “There you are. That’s it. Perfect."

It takes half a second to set the scene in his head, Porthos in the chair, fully clothed with his boots still on and Aramis nude at his feet. He’s so good and isn’t moving but even still Porthos ties his hands and the feeling of the rope around his wrists is so calming. Perhaps the television is still on, perhaps there are other people in the room. His cock jerks violently at the notion.

Yes, then. Other men in the chairs, faces he’s seen from Porthos’ pictures, faces from his own training, no one from his company or command because Aramis needs to be able to have breakfast with a straight face tomorrow. Strangers wander through and the idea of them seeing him like that, open and calm and quiet, has Aramis gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.

“What’s going on?” they ask. And the blond in the chair next to Porthos says,  “Just admiring du Vallon’s gorgeous cockwarmer.”

Aramis sits still, lets their comments wash over him and try not to preen under the praise. When Porthos’ cock finally swells enough to fill Aramis’ mouth he coughs but doesn’t try to pull back.

Alone in his dorm Aramis grips himself harder with one hand and pulls at the buttons of his fly with the other. When the cool air of the room hits the wet head of his cock he can feel his breath coming fast and hard. The soldiers stationed here have taken to draping spare sheets between the head and footboards. With these makeshift curtains shielding him Aramis strokes the flat of his palm across his cock and takes himself back to that room in his head and the feel of Porthos huge in his mouth.

He can almost hear the contented sigh Porthos lets out as he takes Aramis by the face, big palms and fingers wrapping around his head, and fucks Aramis’ face onto him. “Nice,” Porthos says. “Keeping that mouth open so I can use it. You are so good.”

A fox-faced man Aramis recognizes from Porthos’ pictures asks, “Is he this pretty when he’s breathless?”  Porthos rumbles and pulls him further down until Aramis knows everyone can see his face turning red and when Porthos pulls him back off they’ll be able to hear him gasping.

“Oh,” says the fox-faced man, “oh, he  _is_  pretty like that.”

In the quiet of the dorm Aramis can hear the dry whispering slip of his palm gliding over his shaft, pressing it against his belly.  He shoves his fatigues and boxers further down his legs so he can stroke his other hand over his balls. He bites back a moan and imagines it muffled by Porthos’ cock deep in his throat. He can hear Porthos telling him how good it feels as he leans forward to run one hand over the front of Aramis’ neck.

“I can feel it in there. I can feel myself fucking into your throat and it’s so good. You are so good for me, doing all the right things. I’m going to pull you off now, and then I’m going to stand you up and put you face down over the arm of this chair. It’s going to be the perfect height for me to fuck you.”

Aramis rubs his face into his pillow and imagines it is the rough fabric of that chair. He can feel the phantom pull in his shoulders as Porthos holds him by the rope around his wrists. He’s so good, keeps his legs spread just where Porthos positioned them. He doesn’t have to guess if he’s making the right move, doesn’t have to wonder if he’s doing the right thing. Porthos put him here and all he needs to do is stay where he’s put, to behave.

Even knowing he’s doing just as he’s told he still arches and luxuriates in the feeling of Porthos’ hand stroking up his back and into his hair an the sound of Porthos’ voice praising him. “Isn’t he beautiful?  And no matter what happens he’s going to keep his head turned so that you can all see on his face how much he wants this.”  

The jerk of a hand in his hair is almost real. It turns his head so that the arm of the chair is under his cheek and the men in the other chairs can see his face as he blushes furiously.  He wants this so bad and every one of them can tell.

Aramis spreads his legs as wide as they’ll go with his fatigues still trapping his knees and he rubs a finger at the skin behind his balls, pressing and teasing at himself and imagining Porthos’ big fingers stretching him. They have callouses now from endless pushups and hours at the firing range but they are still so careful.

Porthos knows he hates to wait and so the stretching takes forever. The men around the room will chime in when they think he’s ready for another finger or when his face contorts into the telltale expression of a man about to come. After a fucking eternity pushing lube-covered fingers into him Porthos takes himself in hand, slicking himself and pushing into Aramis with a groan like quiet thunder. Around the room Aramis can hear people commenting on his face, how his mouth has fallen open, how he’s come up on his toes as Porthos fucks into him mercilessly.

“You did just what I asked, so perfect for me. Tell me when you’re close, I want to hear you shout it.”

And then the room is quiet except for the slap of Porthos’ hips into his own and the appreciative murmurs of the assembled crowd.  Before long they’re calling out to Porthos, wanting to know if he’s going to keep at it all night, asking how long Aramis can hold out. Porthos says that Aramis can wait as long as he’s told to wait and Aramis whimpers and screws his eyes shut because he can feel it coming and he’s not sure he can wait. When finally cries out that he’s close it’s even louder that any of them expect because Porthos’ thrusts are punching it out of him.

Porthos stills immediately, pulling out and tugging on Aramis’ ropes until he’s standing up. “I’m going to sit back down now and you’re going to slide yourself right down over my cock. I want your back to me.”   His back to Porthos means his face out to the room. It means every single man in there will be watching his cock jerk as Porthos fucks him.

Alone in the dorm Aramis has to bite back a moan at the idea of being so open like that and how calming Porthos’ voice would be right in his ear.

“You’re going to sit right here and I’m going to fuck you and you’re going to come and you’re not going to hide your face. I want everyone to see you. And  **you**  want everyone to see you. You want to know they’re going to go back to their own bunks tonight and fuck their fists and think about how gorgeous you are.  Look at their faces watching you, love. Give them a show, my beautiful slut. Paint your belly with your come and know that they’re going to be hard for years every time they remember it.”

And just like that Aramis is spilling over his hand and shoving the heel of his other hand into his mouth because he just can’t  _not_  cry out.

It takes several minutes for Aramis’ breathing to even out and his cock to stop jerking in his hand. He feels boneless and it’s everything he can do to strip off his soiled clothes and put a fresh pair of boxers on before stumbling back to his bed. He falls asleep with one hand curved over the back of his neck and dreams that it’s Porthos keeping him grounded, keeping him safe.

 

When their plane lands back in Calvi two months later Aramis thinks he never expected to be so glad to see Corsica again. He stows his gear and calls first his parents and then Porthos to let him know he’s back. It’s a Friday, their usual night for talking, but things come up all the time so Aramis leaves a voicemail promising to try back the next day and powers off his phone. He sleeps for twelve hours straight and when the morning comes he joins the rest of his team in the lounge for coffee.

Al Jazeera is on, and the footage looping on the screen shows a charred pile of metal, and a crush of people and ambulances. Just as Aramis’ brain wonders fuzzily what is going on, the on-screen correspondent begins to relate the news of a massive car bombing in central Baqouba.

The camera pans over a row of blankets draped over still figures and the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen say that the death toll so far is at sixty-eight but they’re still combing through the rubble. Aramis crosses himself and looks around at his team, thinking how glad he is that they’re all safe with him, even Rogers.

He’s got a pile of laundry to be done and as the washing machine kicks into the spin cycle he fishes his mobile from his pocket and powers it on. The envelope indicating voicemail is blinking at him and as the message starts Aramis hears Porthos’ voice and smiles.

“Hey, brother, I got your voicemail. Sorry I missed your call. We were in a convoy all day and that’s just a shit time for calls. Can’t hear the ringer and can’t tell if it’s the transport vibrating or the phone. Anyway. We’re in Baqouba for the next three weeks, that’s… uhhh... two and a half hours ahead of you. We’re going out on patrol in the city center in the morning, I’ll ring you when we’re done, yeah?  Love you, be safe.”

The message plays through in less than a minute. The time it takes for Aramis’ mind to play back the images of smoking metal, crumbled buildings, pools of blood on the street is a full five seconds. But all the air leaving the room? His world ending? That only takes a heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding the violence: Aramis' team is assigned to deal with a standoff. Standard crowd control techniques are used and tear gas is mentioned. Casualty and injury numbers are given but no deaths are described and the only injury mentioned is a non-lethal cut to a soldier. Towards the end of the chapter there is a news report of a car bombing and the aftermath. There are mentions of casualty numbers and a brief mention of casualties covered with blankets and blood on the street. As I said, nothing you wouldn't see on the news (in fact it IS being seen on the news) but I have enough friends with PTSD issues that I'm in the "better safe than sorry" camp.
> 
> Regarding actual historical events:  
> Both the Kosovo riots (specifically the bridge standoff) and the Baqouba car bombing are actual events. Whenever possible I've put the guys places where their units were actually deployed. If that wasn't possible I put them places where the French army had a presence either on their own or as part of a NATO force
> 
> Regarding the descriptions of training:  
> I just want to make it clear that each incident, punishment, exercise, drill, or march described in here is one I gleaned from either documentaries or first-person accounts of life at Castelnaudary and its associated Farms. (the farms are rural training grounds) I tweaked the foot injury description slightly because the original was one guy saying he'd taken his boot off and poured the blood out of it and that was a little much even for me. Also, they do not fuck around with punishment for those who fall behind in French classes or their tutors because you either learn or you're a danger to your company.


	8. Twenty-six - Calvi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He feels Porthos’ arms slide around his waist, feels the heat of Porthos’ breath just under his ear. Porthos smells like the train, like the air inside the ferry lounge and industrial laundry detergent. He smells utterly unfamiliar, and all Aramis wants to do is tear his clothes away until he find a part that smells like _Porthos_ and nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interlude, of a sort. A bit of a break in the heaviness. Thank you, as ever, to ceeturnalia. Also to my favorite menace, etoildemer, and to breathtaken for helping me hash out that one bit.
> 
> Getting ballsy enough to post this without my comma-wrangler looking it over. I apologize for making you suffer through my experiments in remedial punctuation.

It feels like Aramis calls every fifteen minutes all day. He reaches out to his parents; he watches the news, he checks his voicemail incessantly. When his phone finally rings it’s nearly seven at night, and he fumbles it trying to snatch it from the table. He takes so long to get it to his ear he’s afraid he’s missed the call. “Porthos?” he shouts, and the first words back to him are the perfect ones.

“I’m fine; I wasn’t there.”

Aramis isn’t going to cry, not in the middle of the canteen surrounded by the better part of a company of Legionnaires, but he does put his head down on his folded arms on the table and just wait for his heart to stop pounding. “Thank you, lord. Thank fuck.”

“I was probably half a mile away. I heard it but I wasn’t there, and I’m fine.”

“You’ve no idea the things I’d imagined- ”

“Aramis, hang up. I need to call your parents because they did their part in filling up my voicemail today. I’ll call you back in just a few minutes.”

“Right, of course.”

Aramis is more than half afraid he’s imagined the call and the phone will never ring again. He feels more than a little foolish about that fear a few minutes later when the phone rings again and he sees Porthos’ number on the screen. Then, all at once, the fear and the foolishness rush out of him, and all that’s left is the shaking rage of a man powerless to help someone he loves. He mashes the “Answer” button.

“Don’t you fucking ever scare me like that again. God, Porthos!”

Porthos is shouting back, and Aramis can only imagine the looks on the faces in Porthos’ tent. “This from a man who sent me a fucking postcard to let me know he was joining the goddamn Foreign Legion?”

Aramis pinches the bridge of his nose and yells “How the fuck long are you going to be angry with me for doing the same thing you did?”

“What the hell are you on about?”

“Let’s not pretend you didn’t leave that letter from the recruitment office on the table for me to read. And let’s not pretend that was somehow morally superior to me sending you a postcard while I had no other means of getting ahold of you.”

There’s a long silence that’s broken eventually by Porthos’ weary voice. “I just… I wish you would fucking stay put where it’s safe.”

“Well, that makes two of us. God I’m so glad you weren’t there.”

“I’m fine. We heard the explosion. Huge fucking noise and we all went running, but it was too late. By the time I got there, all we could do was get the survivors onto ambulances and get the… others out of the fallen buildings. Fuck, Aramis…”

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

“Good, because I don’t think I can. I think I just need to sit for a while and not hear sirens or explosions or screaming.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Not yet? Could you just… could you just sit with me for a bit?”

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me to.”

“I love you, brother.”

“I love you, Porthos.”

The summer evening shadows grow long across the floor as Aramis listens to Porthos’ breathing growing calm and even. For a few minutes at the beginning Aramis feels angry that he can’t do anything else to help, but then he remembers the sound of Porthos on the other end of the line the night things ended with Claire. He remembers how just hearing Porthos breathe was a balm to his soul and while he knows there is no way he can ever repay Porthos for all the goodness he’s brought to Aramis’ life, this sitting quietly together is something Aramis can do.

When they finally end the call, Porthos’ voice is just tired, not the dragging, crushed weariness of earlier. Aramis tells him to get some rest and says he’ll call on their regular night, if not sooner.

“Sooner might be good.”

“Anything you need.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you more.”

And then there is nothing but the quiet of the room, and the feeling that Aramis can finally breathe again.

 

Summer passes into fall, and Aramis finds himself first in training, and then on a plane to Côte d’Ivoire. He calls Porthos, and they commiserate about days spent standing guard over ordinary street corners while the sun does its best to bore holes in them. He’s there for the Festival of Masks in November, and he takes Rogers to the all-night church services for Christmas. By the time he gets back to the base the details of his prayers have grown fuzzy, but he knows for certain, as he does every year, that he prayed for his family, his parents and Porthos. He knows he told God that wherever Porthos is it’s like Aramis’ heart is walking around outside his body, and he knows he asked God to keep it safe.

 

The unit doesn’t make it back to Corsica until March, just in time for the cross-island march. Half way through the return trip one of the rookies summons up enough courage to ask, voice heavy with exhaustion, how Aramis isn’t destroyed by the hike. Aramis tells him that it’ll never be easy, but after more than three years, two of them in active duty, he’s learned how to pad his boots. That, and how much water to bring with him. It’s still not a walk in the park, but those two things make it so much easier.

For days the conversation niggles at him, it picks at the back of his mind. He's in the shower when he finally pinpoints what struck him. He’s remembering, as he always does, (always has, always will) how much he loves Porthos. He’s pulling out the memory of them in the apartment over the tavern and running his fingers along the edges of it when he hears his own words again. Three years, he’d said. More than three years since he walked into the selection center.

He dries off and pulls his mobile from his footlocker, toweling his hair while he watches the signal bars blink on. It’s far too late for Porthos to be up, past midnight where he is, so Aramis is surprised to hear that familiar voice say, “I was just thinking about you.”

“I was just thinking about you, also.” Aramis drops his voice. "While I was naked in the shower.”

“Nice. Tell me more.”

Aramis laughs and god, he always forgets how much he loves the way Porthos makes him laugh. “Not those kind of thoughts. Well, not just those kinds of thoughts. Do you realize it’s been more than three years since we’ve seen each other?”

Porthos’ voice is dull, tired. “I try not to think about it. Just makes me…”

“Me too.” They’re both quiet for a moment. “I’m rotating back off the base in May, another four months in Côte d’Ivoire, but then I’m back here for a while after that. They’ve asked me to teach sniper tactics to some of the new crop. So there’s a good chance I’ll be here through New Year’s.”

“I feel like you’re getting close to a point.”

Aramis grins. “You wound me. I always have a point. In this case the point is that I have leave saved up. I’m thinking of taking some.”

“Yeah? When might you be doing that?”

“That depends.” Aramis is trying to be coy, but he’s so desperate for this to work he can’t keep it out of his voice. "Is it just my schedule I’m working around?”

Porthos is smiling; Aramis can hear it through the phone. “Aramis, are you suggesting that you might like a visit?”

“Why must you be such a trial? What I’m saying, since apparently I haven’t made it clear, is that if you can get leave I will do my very best to get some at the same time. I’ve got seniority; I’ve got time saved up, and I think a visit with my best friend is a great way to make use of both of those.”

“You sweet-talker.”

Neither one of them can promise anything, that’s not how active-duty military works, but they both try. Porthos gets tentative approval for a visit the last week of November. Aramis puts his request in. Every day that passes while Aramis is on rotation that summer feels like he’s a kid with an advent calendar, ticking off time before Santa comes.

 

It almost doesn’t happen. There’s a rumor of insurgent activity, and Porthos worries his unit will call him back. But when the day comes he’s on a train and then a ferry and then, as if the last three and a half years have been a fever dream, he’s there in front of Aramis.

Porthos is in dusty fatigues; there’s a scar on his neck that Aramis has never seen before, and his hair is longer than the last time Aramis saw it. His smile is tenuous, as though he is worried he’s dreaming, and Aramis might disappear. But his face, it’s like he’s lit up from the inside.

He is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing Aramis has ever seen.

Aramis had been sure they’d run at each other, that there would be huge crushing hugs and loud backslapping. What happens instead is that Aramis walks toward him, too shaken to run. He buries his nose in the collar of Porthos’ shirt and slides his hands up Porthos’ back, hooking them over his shoulders from behind, clinging as though he can pull Porthos into his skin.

He feels Porthos’ arms slide around his waist, feels the heat of Porthos’ breath just under his ear. Porthos smells like the train, like the air inside the ferry lounge and industrial laundry detergent. He smells utterly unfamiliar, and all Aramis wants to do is tear his clothes away until he finds a part that smells like Porthos and nothing else.

The skin of Aramis’ neck muffles Porthos’ voice. “I missed you so goddamn much. Didn’t realize how much until just now.”

“I know. I know. Fuck I missed you.”

“Not going to say you missed me more?”

“Not today.”

Aramis can feel the muscles of Porthos’ shoulders under his fingers. Porthos is broader, somehow than the last time they saw each other. He digs his fingers in and exhales a deep sigh. “I could stand here with you all day, but eventually they’d kick us out. Come on, let’s get you to the hotel.”

“Please tell me you don’t have big plans for the evening.”

“Porthos, my only plan for the remainder of the time you are here is to not be out of your presence more than is absolutely necessary. Is that acceptable?”

He can feel Porthos nod against his neck. “The best.”

 

They stop for dinner, take-away from the burger joint on the corner. The hotel is the same one where Aramis’ parents stayed two years earlier. It’s nothing special, clean and reasonably priced, but Porthos isn’t here for the decor and amenities. For the room to be perfect all it needs to have in it is Aramis.

Porthos showers, and Aramis leaves him to it because if he goes in there they’ll get distracted, and while that always sounds fun in theory, invariably someone slips or there’s not enough room. Instead, he takes his shoes off and stows the few things he packed in the top drawer of the dresser.

When Porthos comes out of the shower, water still running down his chest, Aramis is sitting on the room’s tiny sofa with his feet propped up on the table. The sight of Porthos wearing only a towel, all that gorgeous skin on display, makes Aramis’ mouth go dry. He finds that he’s staring at the line above Porthos’ hip where water is running down, following the lines of his muscles. When he looks up again, Porthos is staring at him.

“I had a plan, you know?”

Aramis swallows. “Oh?”

“I had a great plan. I’ve spent years with some of the best tactical minds in the Army, learning how to execute an assault. I was going get out of the shower, and I was going to drag you to the bed and fuck you so fast it would make your head spin.” He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and tightens his grip on the towel. "It was a great plan. Get you under me and take everything I’ve been thinking about since we planned this visit, and for the three years before it. It was a really good plan, Aramis.”

“That is an excellent plan. It’s possible you’re a tactical genius, Porthos. Come here, and let’s put this plan into action.”

Porthos shakes his head. “Nah. Changed my mind.”

Aramis actually whines. “Porthos, I think it’s important that I point out the wisdom of your original plan. I am entirely in favor of this strategy.”

“I have a better plan, Aramis.”

“Better than dragging me to the bed and having your way with me?"

“Here’s the new plan, I’m going to take my time. I have gone years without your skin, Aramis. And I might go years before I see you again. So I’m going to take every possible second I can with you.” Porthos advances on the couch, so graceful for such a big man. "You’ve got scars I haven’t seen; you’ve got muscles I’ve never sunk my teeth into. I need to get to know them, run my tongue over every inch of them so that I can get them in my head. You think you’re the only one who pulls those memories out when he’s alone?”

Aramis lets out a strangled groan. Later, he’s going to tell Porthos some of the things he came up with when he was alone, but for now Porthos isn’t finished.

“You know what else? I’ve just remembered that you have a spot on the back of your right shoulder where four freckles come together in a bunch. It’s been so long since I last saw that spot that I’d forgotten. What else have I forgotten, Aramis?” His tone is one of genuine worry.

Aramis' mind whirrs, putting visuals to everything Porthos is describing, and every one of them is exquisite.

“I’m not going to sleep tonight, am I?”

“Probably not. I want to fuck you in half a dozen different ways, and that could very well take ’til sunup.”

Aramis smiles. He stands and closes the distance between them. “Porthos, if I don’t get to kiss you soon I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

He can’t help himself; he takes Porthos by the shoulders, and the kiss is so much better than he remembered. He wants to be kissing everywhere on Porthos all at once, but Porthos keeps pulling back every time Aramis tries to deepen the kiss. He’s licking at Aramis’ lips, kissing the corners of his mouth and holding Aramis’ face in his hands. He drags his mouth over Aramis, feels where their foreheads touch and their noses are rubbing. Porthos kisses Aramis like he’s charting his face, and Aramis is getting drunk on it.

A week ago Aramis would have said that they’d have fallen straight into bed. His original plan hadn’t been far off Porthos’. Instead, they stand in the middle of the room, kissing and running their hands over each other, for almost half an hour. Aramis had forgotten how Porthos’ mouth feels against his collarbone. How could he have forgotten? How is possible that he didn’t remember how broad Porthos’ hands feel spread across his back?

If Aramis lives to be a thousand, nothing will ever feel as right as Porthos’ hands on his skin.

Before long there’s a pile of discarded clothing on the floor next to them, Aramis’ button-down, his t-shirt, his jeans. He toes off his socks and never lets his mouth leave Porthos’. He tugs at the towel, and it falls on top of the pile; when he can get Porthos’ hand out of his fly long enough he slides his boxers down as well.

They’re standing in the middle of this hotel room, naked in the afternoon light and running their hands over each other. Eventually, they stop kissing for a moment to take in the sight of each other. Aramis sees a fresh scar on Porthos’ ribs. He traces his fingers across it.

“Afghanistan. Stood too close to something that I shouldn’t have.”

Aramis drops to a crouch and kisses it. There’s a dark, angry-looking mark on Porthos’ right hip. He strokes it and looks up at Porthos with a question in his eyes.

Porthos smiles. “We call that one a training accident. Because saying ‘broke up a drunken brawl’ apparently doesn’t sound very becoming of the Army.”

Aramis presses his lips to that one as well. He kisses the burn mark on the back of Porthos’ left calf that he says came from armored personnel carrier exhaust. He runs his tongue over the nearly-new scratches on the back of both arms that Porthos tells him came from losing his footing and sliding down a hill covered in loose shale.

When he gets to the livid pucker on the back of Porthos’ left shoulder, Aramis checks and finds the matching paler circle on Porthos’ chest. He knows what it is, of course; he’s seen bullet wounds before. He won’t make Porthos say it, but in case he wants to Aramis looks Porthos in the eye and tries to say everything with his face.

“I can’t talk about it. I wish to hell I could. Closest I’ve come to the reason I joined up, and it hurt like fuck, but I’m so damn proud of it."

There’d been rumors, now Aramis knows they’re true. The list of indictments for war crimes in Bosnia had been trickling out of The Hague for a decade, and Special Forces units from around the world had been helping hunt down the criminals since the beginning. Given that their specialties made them well suited for going in anywhere and coming out successful, Porthos’ regiment had been near the top of the list.

The news had reported recent arrests but hadn’t said who was responsible beyond “combined military and civilian forces.” Aramis thinks about Porthos facing off against a man who might have ordered the deaths of thousands of innocents, and considers that if they both got out of it alive, Porthos isn’t the only lucky one.

Aramis moves around behind him and presses his forehead against the scar, breathing in the smell of Porthos’ skin. He kisses the mark, runs his tongue over the ripples where the skin has knitted back together, and thanks whoever might be listening that the bullet went straight through. Whoever the man was he was shooting wildly, and that’s so often more dangerous than well-aimed shots.

Porthos drops his head back, resting it against Aramis’ head and feeling warm arms wrap around his waist. Their fingers intertwine for a minute, clutching tight at each other. Aramis strokes his hands over Porthos’ belly as he kisses across to his other shoulder. He strokes Porthos’ chest, pressing his hands against the planes of his muscles, pulling Porthos closer to him as he licks his way up Porthos’ spine to the back of his neck.

Aramis bites at the skin below Porthos’ ear and says in a low murmur, “Every inch of you is perfect.” He drags his thumbs over Porthos’ nipples just to hear him gasp, and then pinches them lightly to hear him gasp again.

Porthos' voice is sex-heavy and deep, “Fucking hell, I missed you. Missed your hands, missed your voice this close.”

“Three days.”

“Not long enough.”

“Better get started on your plan, then.”

Porthos turns in his arms and kisses Aramis again; mouth pressed to his and tongue swiping at Aramis’ lower lip. They’re still kissing as Porthos takes Aramis by the shoulders and guides him to the bed. He pushes until Aramis is spread out across the sheets, his skin dark against the stark white of the bedding. Aramis splays his legs wide, and Porthos kneels between them, sitting back on his heels and taking in the sight.

“You’re fuckin’ gorgeous.”

I could hear that from a hundred lovers, and it would never mean what it does coming from you, Aramis thinks. Because you’re the only one I’ll ever love like this.

“Please, your hands.” Aramis is starved for it; it’s been so long since he had anyone’s hands but his own on his body, so long since it meant something.

Porthos strokes down his thighs, cups him behind the knees and pulls his legs up until Aramis’ feet are flat on the bed. His hands stroke under Aramis’ thighs, around to his hips, digging his fingers into Aramis’ waist just to feel the skin dimple under his nails.

“My turn,” Porthos says, and he takes Aramis’ right leg in his hands, and with his finger he draws a circle around a line on the inside of his knee that’s grown white with time.

“Training, actually. When they tell you to watch the backlash on a line under tension? They mean it.”

Porthos kisses it, inhaling the smell of Aramis’ skin and humming his pleasure against the scar. He puts one hand next to Aramis’ shoulder and braces his weight on it, so he can put the other hand on Aramis’ collarbone, his thumb and forefinger framing a twisted lump of skin.

“There was an explosion in Kosovo. A bit of something flew off a building. It was still on fire when it hit me, and it got stuck in my collar. I cried more than the guy who almost lost his foot.”

Aramis can feel the rumble of Porthos’ laughter against his neck as his tongue traces the outline of the mark, and it raises gooseflesh up both arms. “You were always worse than a little kid when you got hurt. Turn over.”

Once he’s arranged with his chest against the sheets Aramis can feel Porthos stretch out full-length against him. Their skin is touching along the whole length of his body, and he wants to weep with how good it feels. To say it feels like home is embarrassingly sentimental, but perhaps that’s what the moment calls for.

Porthos sits back on his knees and runs his fingers across Aramis’ ribcage. He can feel Porthos eyes on him and knows what he’s looking at. Aramis knew this moment would come, would have to once they got rid of their clothes. “I know what these are.”

“Well, you’re a clever fellow, Porthos.”

“Want to tell me how you got fingernail scratches deep enough to leave scars?”

Aramis’ grin is lazy. “We had a philosophical disagreement.”

Porthos is dragging his nose along the lines. He’s not even kissing the skin, just letting his dry lips run along the scars. “Oh yeah?”

“The lady in question indicated she was marking me. She seemed to think it would make me hers alone somehow. I told her I couldn’t promise her that, I told her - Fuck! ” Porthos’ tongue is licking at the edges of the top-most scar now, his hands curled around Aramis’ hips and gripping fiercely. Aramis’ toes are curling with how delicious it feels to have those hands on him again. “Please, Porthos."

Porthos pulls his mouth back and says, “Didn’t like that, did she?”

“She… No, she did not. She dug in harder and said I didn’t know a fucking thing about love and stormed out.” Aramis’ voice has gone tight with the memory, but he moans as Porthos’ tongue starts licking at him again, interrupted from time to time by the soft press of his lips against the skin.

“She was wrong. Twice.”

“Yeah?” Aramis’ voice is growing breathy and he’s struggling to keep from pushing his hips back into Porthos.

“First, you know more about love than anyone I’ve ever known. And second, no one gets to mark you without your say so.” When Porthos’ teeth come down over the scratches, Aramis shouts curses into the pillows. He wants this so much, he knows that the teeth marks won’t stay, won’t cover the scars, but this is good; now every time he touches them he’ll remember this instead of that ill-fated evening.

“I only want you to.”

He wishes, more than he could ever have believed, that the bruises Porthos is biting into his back would stay forever; he wants to be able to see them there always. Some day, far in the future, he hopes, when Porthos is settled and happy with the girl of his dreams and their beautiful family, Aramis wants to trace a mark in his skin and remember that once there was a time when Porthos wanted Aramis for his own.

Aramis can feel Porthos arch over his back again and then feels those lips pressing to a place on his right shoulder where there is no scar. “Hello, freckles,” Porthos says. “I remember you.” His lips move down to the back of Aramis’ arm, “There’s the spot where you burned yourself on the kettle when you were drunk. I’ve missed that spot.”

Porthos’ hands never stop moving, stroking up Aramis’ back and down again to press his hips down into the mattress. Aramis has been hard so long it’s become almost background noise, but he still has to muffle a whine when Porthos puts a wet, sloppy kiss on the small of his back saying, “These are the dimples I can see when you’re walking into the shower. I like the left one best.”

He’s laughing until he feels Porthos’ hands grip his ass, pulling it apart. Aramis feels suddenly, desperately exposed. Porthos’ breath is hot against him as he says, “Missed this part, too.” And then his tongue is licking out at Aramis’ hole.

For a long time Porthos just kisses the outside. Wet, tonguing kisses; sucking, loud kisses; but never pushing in, never pressing at him. It goes on forever, and Aramis is almost crying by the time he feels Porthos’ tongue, broad and flat against him, pushing at him. When he curls it, flicking up over the hole and pushing out, Aramis arches his back, and his belly comes off the bed.

Porthos swats him on the ass, laughing. “Keep still, I’m not nearly done yet.” Aramis can feel Porthos’ thumbs pushing at his entrance. It’s been years since he had anything but his own fingers inside him, months since he’s had even those, it might as well be the first time they’ve done this for as tight as he is.

The pad of Porthos’ thumb pushes again, pressing inside just a bit and Aramis hisses. “Fuck, Aramis,” Porthos says. “Look how tight you are. It’s gonna feel so good around my cock, around my tongue.” Aramis whimpers into the sheets. “I know, but I know you can be patient while I stretch you and get you ready for me. I promise I’ll make it so good.”

Porthos is as good as his word. He’s worshipping Aramis’ ass, and it feels like it goes on for hours. Porthos licks and kisses and mouths at him until Aramis is sobbing into the pillows. By the time he deems Aramis ready both of Porthos’ thumbs are easily slipping into his spit-slick hole.

In the quiet of the room, Aramis can hear the sound of the lube cap flicking open and the liquid squelch of it between Porthos’ fingers. He gets a little short of breath when he feels two of Porthos’ thick fingers pushing into him and twisting. His ass is so sensitive right now; he can’t imagine how good Porthos’ cock is going to feel.

There’s a third finger now, and the twist is slower. Porthos is working him open with one hand and stroking over his ass with the other. He’s petting Aramis and whispering quietly how good he is, how gorgeous when he’s getting stretched like this. He’s telling Aramis how amazing his ass is going to be and how much he’s been dreaming about this.

“More?” Aramis shakes his head, hard. “No? You want to be good and tight for me, don’t you?”

Porthos pulls back, sitting on his heels again and holding Aramis’ ass open with his broad, strong hands. “Tell me what you want, Aramis.”

Aramis' voice is a pleading whine. “Fuck me.”

There’s the sound of Porthos rolling a condom on and then there it is, the heat of Porthos’ cock against him. Porthos leans over him, mouth close to Aramis' ear, and says, “What was that?”

He’s rocking his hips, and the head of his cock is kissing Aramis’ hole over and over, pressing against it every time just a little more.

“You have to fuck me. You have to. Please.” The ‘please' is repeated, a spell and a prayer at once.

Porthos’ cock is pressing into him now; the fat head pushing at the tight ring of muscles at his entrance and stretching it open. “Nothing as good as when you fall apart for me, Aramis. Nothing in the world this good.”

For a man as big as he is, Porthos is remarkably aware of his own strength. He could shove into Aramis easily, but instead he is single-minded in his slow progress. He slides back and then pushes in time and again, a little deeper each time. It’s like the focus of Porthos’ world has narrowed down to the stretch of Aramis around him, the sound of Aramis’ breathy moans and the sweat pooling between Aramis’ shoulder blades.

By the time Porthos' hips are snug against the cradle of his ass, Aramis is twisting under him, curling and bucking and trying anything he can to get Porthos deeper into him now. Instead, Porthos stills with a hiss and says at his ear, “You’re so fucking tight. So damn - Am I hurting you?”

Aramis squirms against him, shifting back into the heat of Porthos' hips. “A little.” When Porthos moves to pull out Aramis reaches back and clutches at his hip. “No! Don’t stop. I love when it’s like this; you know that. I love when I can feel you for days and remember how big you are, how full you make me feel.”

When he speaks again Porthos’ voice is lava, hot and liquid and slow. “You want it so much? Then I’m going to stop now. I’m going to hold myself right here, and you are going to fuck yourself on to me while I watch. I want it burned into my head so I can fuck my fist thinking about it until I have you under me again.”

Aramis groans into his arm, “You fucking sadist.”

Porthos’ chuckle is deep and throaty. He tugs at Aramis’ hips rocking him up and back until Aramis is on his hands and knees, Porthos still deep inside him. “Just for that I’m going to make you share. While you’re fucking me, I want you to tell me what you think about during those quiet minutes when you’re alone in the dorm.”

Aramis’ rocking hips stutter to a stop. “I… what?”

Porthos thrusts into him just a bit, just enough to distract him from his defenses. “We all find the time, Aramis. In the shower, in the toilet, in bed when the night is loud enough that no one can hear your hand against the sheets. I know what I picture in my head; I wanna know what you think about.”

Aramis has no internal censor at all; he just starts talking. “I think about you, about your cock inside me. I think about being on my knees in front of you with your cock in my mouth. I think-“ Aramis stops for a second, not sure how to get through this next part. He wants to tell Porthos, but he doesn’t want to set any expectations.

As if he can see Aramis’ concern, Porthos says, “It’s a fantasy, love.” He jerks his hips forward, fucking his cock into Aramis. “It’s not a promise. I wouldn’t want you to hold me to half the stuff I think about when I’m wanking.”

Aramis’ head sags a bit in relief. “Sometimes there are other people.” He’s rocking back now, fucking himself on to Porthos and feeling that delicious slide of his cock pushing in. “They’re not… not fucking me. Just watching.”

“Am I showing you off? You’re made for that, you know? So fucking beautiful. Everyone should see how you look when you come. Do I make you come for them?”

Aramis nods his head; his cheeks are hot, and his cock is dripping with how good it feels to have Porthos use his own fantasies against him like this. “Yes. First you tell me not to, you make me wait until I’m begging you for it where everyone can see.”

They’re both driving into the motion now, Aramis pushing back and Porthos sliding forward, his fingers gripping Aramis’ hips. Aramis can feel the sweat dripping off his forehead.

“Of course I do. You’re such a beautiful slut when you beg me for it. I’d want them all to see how your face goes so tight when you ask me and then how peaceful you look when I tell you to come. I’d want them to watch my cock sliding into you, fucking your cock into my hand. And then when I told you it was time, they’d watch you come all over yourself, all over my hand. Is that how you imagine it?”

Aramis is whimpering now; he can’t seem to stop the little noises, the begging and the whispered pleas. “Yes, it’s just like that. You tell me to come for you and you let them watch, and I love when they see how well you fuck me.”

“Do you want to come for me now?”

“Yes, god so much.” Aramis can feel Porthos curling over his back, his hand slick with lube and circling Aramis’ cock.

“When you push back, you’re fucking yourself onto my cock and when you slide forward, you’re fucking yourself into my hand. Make yourself come for me, Aramis.”

It’s only a matter of seconds before Aramis’ gives a shattered yell and his come is spattering against the sheets and over Porthos’ hand. He keeps coming as Porthos’ hips speed up, the motion driving Aramis’ cock further into Porthos’ fist. When Porthos comes his fingers clench on Aramis’ hip; the muscles in his thighs tighten and his voice is a strangled sob.

Aramis feels Porthos’ fingers relax and then they’re both pitching forward until they’re flat on the bed. Porthos rolls to his side and curls Aramis into him, his cock still pulsing in Aramis’ ass.

“Half a dozen times? Is that what you said?"

Porthos laughs. “Just you wait."

For a few minutes, they lay there together, feeling their sweat cool in the air of the room and reveling in the feel of each other. In the end the day, the travel, the anticipation, it all catches up to them, and before Porthos can do much more than pull out and discard the condom they’re both asleep.

 

They wake a few hours later, pull the burgers from the mini-fridge and eat them sitting on the bed watching TV, their feet tangled with each other. The sex this time is just as slow but full of laughter. Porthos is nipping at places he knows will make Aramis squirm and Aramis is trying to escape. Aramis loses the ensuing wrestling match and finds himself pinned under Porthos’ weight. They get off grinding against each other, their hands wandering to every potentially ticklish spot.

Aramis insists on a shower and they each lavish attention on the other’s body. Porthos soaps every inch of Aramis with his hands, stroking over his legs and pressing clever, strong fingers into the arch of his foot until Aramis moans. In turn, Aramis scrubs Porthos’ back, all the places he can’t reach by himself, and then washes Porthos’ hair as an excuse to get his hands into those beautiful, dark curls.

When they’re dry, they curl up in the bed again, facing each other with their toes touching, and tell stories about the places they’ve been and the people they work with. Porthos hears about Aramis’ team, how Rasool is a saint and Rogers is a shithead, and Karpov has been voted Mostly Likely to Die in a Kitchen Related Explosion He Causes Himself. In return, Porthos tells Aramis about working in the desert, how the unit’s translator taught him to play chess.

 

It’s the first peaceful, uninterrupted night’s sleep Aramis has had in years. He expected to wake up startled, unused to someone else in the bed with him, but some part of his mind must recognize Porthos because neither of them wakes until almost ten the next morning.

At some point in the night they’ve shifted so that they are spooned together with Porthos behind him, his arm slung around Aramis’ waist and his forehead pressed to the back of Aramis’ neck. He can tell the moment Porthos wakes up; the pattern of breath on his back changes.

Porthos’ sleep-soaked voice is deeper than usual, and Aramis can feel it through his skin. “This is nice.”

“I’d forgotten how much I like sleeping with you.” For a second Aramis is worried Porthos will turn that statement into a joke.

He rubs the tip of his nose along the back of Aramis’ neck. “There’s a guy in my unit; he’s always going on about hooking up with girls back home and then leaving before they wake up. Like that’s something he’s proud of. I’ve spent too many nights alone, all the nights when I was a kid, while you were in Spain, all the nights in tents in the desert when it’s fucking freezing. I love this so much; I’ll never understand not wanting to spend all night warm with someone.

Aramis tugs at Porthos’ hand, bringing it to his mouth and kissing the pad of each finger. Without thinking, with a voice so quiet Porthos almost can’t hear it, he says, “I thought about your hands.”

Porthos kisses behind Aramis’ ear. “What about them?"

“You just… you have beautiful hands.” He strokes his thumb over the edges of Porthos’ fingernails and kisses the muscle at the base of Porthos’ thumb. “I- I imagined what it would be like to have your fingers in me.”

The laugh is a rumble against Aramis’ back. “That’s not what I expected for one of your fantasies, just a couple of my fingers in you.”

Aramis swallows around his unexpected shyness. “All.”

Porthos doesn’t say a word. Aramis is so grateful that they’re not looking at each other. It’s turning him on unbelievably to talk about it, but he knows he wouldn’t be able to get the words out if Porthos were watching his face.

“I thought about having all these fingers in me.” Aramis isn’t even sure why he’s hesitant to share this. He knows that there’s nothing he could bring up that Porthos would shame him for. The only explanation he can think of is that he’s trying to tell Porthos how much he trusts him, both with the act and the knowing of it. He’s trying to say that there is nothing of him that Porthos can’t have. When it comes to Porthos, his soul is bare.

“This something you want?” Porthos asks.

“No? Not really, I mean, but the thought of being open for you like that was just so…” He can feel Porthos getting hard against him, so Aramis isn’t alone in finding the idea erotic.

“You thought about more than my fingers, didn’t you?” And god, the sound of Porthos’ voice when he says that brings Aramis right back to that night in his bunk. He’s short of breath when he replies.

“Yes.”

“You can tell me, Aramis.”

“I thought about your hand in me. Your fist.” Aramis’ cheeks feel like they’re on fire, and he’s clenching Porthos’ hand in his own, but his cock is throbbing. “I thought about feeling it twisting in me until I came for you.”

Porthos is kissing along his shoulders, his neck. “That would be a sight to see.” He squeezes Aramis’ hand and then lets it go, moving his arm so that he can stroke Aramis’ back. Aramis feels the tension in him drain out under Porthos’ hands; every bit of him so easily soothed by the fingers smoothing his skin and the low, quiet voice in his ear.

When Porthos’ hand comes to rest on his ass Aramis arches his back pressing into it. Porthos’ fingers start to play at Aramis’ hole, still a little stretched from the day before. “I bet you’d be such a picture, your face as my hand slides into you." Aramis loves the feeling, but he tenses anyway.

“Sore?” Porthos asks.

“A little.”

“I suppose we were a bit… eager.” He reaches behind him for the lube he’s left on the nightstand. “I’ve got an idea.”

“I love your ideas.”

The lube-slick slide of Porthos’ cock between Aramis’ thighs is slow and sweet. They haven’t done this in forever, it was a pleasure forgotten in the heady rush of actually feeling Porthos’ cock in his ass. Feeling it dragging across the back of his balls now, he remembers why he loved doing this. It works best if he’s still, and that’s a delicious mix of lazy and fraught, because as much as he loves to lie there and take it, he struggles not to let his pleasure move him.

Porthos’ hand, warm and broad and liberally spread with lube, wraps over the top of Aramis’ cock, sliding across the head. Aramis drops his head back, and Porthos kisses just below his ear. “I’m not even in you and you’re still open for me. Because it’s not just your body, is it? You open all the way for me. Just for me. Like I do for you, only for you. Fucking love you.”

The words are a surprise, as is Aramis’ reaction. He’s tired, of course, and it’s been so long since they’ve seen each other; he has plenty of excuses, but all the same he hopes that from this angle Porthos can’t see the tear running over the bridge of his nose and onto the pillow. “Just for you.”

They’re pressed together from head to foot, skin against skin, and Porthos is warm and solid behind him. With Porthos’ hot, damp breath on the back of his neck, Aramis feels surrounded by this amazing man. Porthos works his other hand under Aramis’ neck, wrapping it around him, and Aramis buries his nose in Porthos’ forearm kissing and sucking at it as he comes undone. He’s mouthing, “Love you. Love you. Love you,” into Porthos’ skin as his release spills onto the bed.

He can feel when Porthos comes; it's hot and messy between Aramis’ thighs and Porthos’ teeth are sunk into the skin of his shoulder. Neither of them says a word, Porthos just holds Aramis in his arms, and Aramis kisses every inch of Porthos’ skin he can reach. He feels raw around the edges, but he knows that right here he’s safe.

 

They’re too late for breakfast at the hotel, so Aramis takes Porthos to his favorite weekend haunt. It’s a quiet café tucked down a side street, and the owner is happy to see Aramis. There are introductions, and then there is coffee, and Aramis starts to feel human again.

In the afternoon, he takes Porthos to the barracks and shows him all the places he’s allowed to. Most of his team is gone, but Porthos meets Rogers (“Jesus, what a shithead.” “I told you.”) and Pereira, and they share commanding officer horror stories.

There are plenty of options for dinner but all Aramis wants is to spend time with Porthos and the feeling is mutual. So it isn’t as though they need a fancy evening. Still, when will they have another chance? Aramis takes Porthos to one of the nicer restaurants in town. After they’re seated, and they’ve ordered Porthos jerks his chin at the table setting. “You trying to wine and dine me?” He leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “Aramis, I’m a sure thing.”

His tone warms Aramis like wine in his belly. “Well, you’re here, and so that called for something special.”

Porthos turns the salad fork over and over in his fingers.

Aramis knows that face. He says, “I know, I miss when just having dinner with you wasn’t a special occasion."

“Yeah. Not just that, though. I love what I do, but I miss my schedule being my own that’s for sure. My tour will be up in a couple of years; I’ve been thinking about what I want to do next."

The server puts their plates down in front of them, and Aramis meets her eyes; he thanks her in a flurry of compliments and returns the flirtatious smile she offers. Porthos levels a smirk at him and Aramis’ shrug is unapologetic. “With your training, your skills, you’ll have plenty of options when you get out."

“'Course I will, especially now that I can put ’tongue-fucked a Legionnaire' on my CV.”

There’s a choking noise and Porthos looks up just in time to see Aramis cough a mushroom halfway across the table. Porthos grins from under his eyebrows and winks. By the time Aramis’ breathing returns to normal Porthos is back to nervously fiddling with his fork. "Do you think about that? Not about the tongue fucking, I mean. About what you’ll do when your five-year contract is up."

Aramis’ lamb is suddenly fascinating. “Honestly? I hadn’t really thought about it. This is as good a thing to be doing as any, and I’m quite good at some parts. I suppose I'll just keep going."

Confusion creases Porthos’ brow. “D’you mean going for officer commission? Or staying in the enlisted unit?”

"I don’t know; I haven’t thought that far.” He honestly hasn’t. Every time he considers the future he realizes he has no idea what it looks like.

“Aramis, you can't keep marching across Corsica and back twice a year until you’re old and gray.” Confusion has been replaced by concern on Porthos’ face. He’s so used to thinking of Aramis as the one who has it all together; thinking back he recognizes how much of Aramis’ life since Paris has been a study in a particularly dangerous kind of inertia.

"I have no compelling reason to get out.” Aramis is just poking at his potatoes now; he isn’t meeting Porthos’ eyes.

“Neither do I right now, but I’m not planning on giving my whole life to this. I love what I’ve been able to do but someday I’m going to want to get out, to settle somewhere instead of packing my life up every few months. I want a place of my own to live in… a home."

Aramis finally glances up, and the smile on his face is painfully wry. “And that’s the difference between someone who has a future in mind,” he gestures to Porthos with his fork then back at himself, “And someone who doesn’t.”

There is no word for the look on Porthos’ face. It’s somewhere between confused and concerned and terrified. It’s stuck there, stranded. “I’m talking about both of us. Aramis, I don’t know what happens to me without you. I don’t have a future you’re not in."

For a moment, the image is crystal clear in Aramis’ head. Weekends at Porthos’ house, riling his kids up before bed and having Porthos’ wife glare at him. Uncle Aramis buys the noisy toys for Christmas and both Porthos and his wife glare at him. There will always be a couple of changes of his clothes in the guest room.

“Of course, Porthos. I know that. We’re always going to have each other.”

And god, the smile Porthos gives him is so reassured. His eyes are warm and soft as he puts his hand over Aramis’ and squeezes. Aramis feels like he’s drowning.

The server, coming by to make sure they don’t need anything, saves him. Aramis takes the break as a chance to steer the conversation to safer waters. “I’m sorry you couldn’t meet the whole team.”

“Nah, it was enough for me to know that Rogers is as bad as you said. I can’t believe you went to church with him for Christmas.”

“You know me, I always think there’s a chance. He was better for a few weeks after, now he’s back to shithead.”

Porthos shrugs. “Every unit’s got one.”

“What’s yours called again? Blanchett, that’s it.”

They order dessert and spent the rest of the meal designing the perfect arena in which to let Blanchett and Rogers fight to the death.

That night they don’t fuck; they don’t even make out. They kiss for a few perfect minutes and then they just lay together, naked with their limbs intertwined, holding every second of this new memory in their hearts until they fall asleep.

 

By the time Porthos wakes up Aramis has made coffee and is deplorably alert. There’s a series of incoherent grumbles as Porthos makes his way to the toilet, but when he comes back out his teeth are clean, he’s splashed some water on his face, and there’s a cup of coffee waiting on the nightstand for him. “Oh god, I love you.”

“I’m not sure if you’re talking to the coffee or to me. Either way, you’re welcome.”

Porthos settles back on the bed and considers what he can do to convince Aramis they aren’t finished sleeping. He settles on the simplest option.

“C’mere.”

Aramis sits astride Porthos’ thighs, running his hand up Porthos’ chest, tugging at the hair. “This imaginary home in your future? Tell the truth, it’s all picket fences and curtains in the window isn’t it?”

Porthos turns his head away; he looks embarrassed, and Aramis knows he isn’t far off the mark.

Aramis’ voice is teasing and light, “Is that what you think about in the shower, Porthos? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about! I’m sure plenty of men in this world are fantasizing about home design magazines like most do over hard core porn.”

Heaving a sigh, embarrassed, Porthos grabs Aramis by the hips and tries to push him off. Aramis hooks his heels under Porthos’ knees and refuses to budge. “You don’t have to be ashamed that you get hard looking at kitchen drawer knobs!” He’s laughing hysterically, and Porthos is shoving at him.

He gives up, and grabs Aramis around the cock, saying, “You know me, I get hard thinking about a totally different knob.”

“I’m not fooled. It’s all about the house, not my cock.”

Porthos leers. “What makes you think they’re not there together?”

Aramis’ heart jumps. “Oh yeah?” He slides both hands up, leaning down until he’s whispering into Porthos’ mouth. “I’m the sexy housewife, yeah? Making sure your dinner’s on the table when you come home. Meeting you at the door in just my boxers and my apron so you can bend me over the couch before I fix you a cocktail?” He can feel Porthos getting hard under him.

“Not a housewife! And who says it’s boxers?”

Aramis sits up, laughing. “You dirty man. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me in a pair of lace panties. I’d be sure and wear heels so my legs would look nice and long in my stockings.”

Porthos’ fingers dig into the meat of Aramis' ass; his pupils are wide, and his pulse is throbbing in his neck. Aramis loves this look on him, swimming in a world they’ve made together.

“You’d be so pleased to see me you’d have me right there against the door, wouldn’t you?” Aramis kneels up and scoots back so he can take both of their cocks in his hand. At first he’s just gripping, just holding them together, hot and velvet smooth against each other.

“I would. I wouldn’t even take those panties off, just push them aside and slide right in. Because you’d keep yourself ready for me, wouldn’t you? You wouldn't want to wait.”

Aramis feels Porthos’ hand replace his own around their cocks and start stroking. It’s so good. He falls forward, bracing his hands against Porthos’ chest and biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting.

“Of course I would.” Aramis turns his head to look into Porthos’ eyes; his grin is wicked. “And what's my reward for that? Do I get a spanking?”

And, because he’s Porthos, he plays along. “Of course you would, if you want.”

This is better than Aramis could have imagined. “You know I would. Bend over that same couch for you.” He’s jerking his hips up into Porthos’ hand, so close to coming he can taste it. Then Porthos’ hand stills and his grip grows tighter.

“Now, Aramis. Did you just try to come before you even got your spanking?”

“Jesus Christ, Porthos. I can’t-“ The crack of Porthos’ hand across Aramis’ ass echoes in the hotel room.

“You can, and you will.” Porthos rubs his hand over the spot he’d hit and feels how warm it is under his palm. “I wish I could see it.” His hand comes down again, making Aramis buck forward into the fingers around his cock.

They fall into it like it’s a familiar pattern. Porthos’ hand slaps against Aramis’ ass again and again, and each time Aramis helplessly jerks forward, sliding his cock along Porthos’.

“I’d want to see my handiwork, you know. I’d want to watch your ass get pink for me while I spank you. I imagine I’d be able to see it get red even through those pretty panties, wouldn’t I? Maybe I’d let you lean far enough forward that you could jerk your cock off against the couch like you’re jerking off into my hand now."

Aramis knows he’s getting close again; telling Porthos that gets him a tight circle around the base of his cock and a pause in the spanking. Somehow, maybe it’s the slowing thump of the pulse visible at the side of Aramis’ neck, Porthos knows when he’s ready again. The warm hand holding their cocks together starts stroking, and Aramis can feel the air move over his skin of his ass before the slap lands.

Porthos brings him to the edge twice more, and after the second time Aramis is growing hoarse with begging. It feels like it takes hours, but by the time the hand around his cock starts to speed up rather than slow down Aramis is pleading with every part of his body. His hips are jerking helplessly, his back arching. The tendons in his neck are standing out in sharp relief, and his face is flushed red. The words he’s saying have stopped making sense in his own head.

“Please. Please, Porthos. Please please let me come. You’re so good to me, please.”

“That’s how you’d beg for me, isn’t it? When your ass is bright red through the lace, and you’ve been so close for so long even the front of your pretty frilly apron is wet through. And when you couldn't wait another second I’d finally say it, yeah? Come on, Aramis. Come for me.”

Later, Aramis won’t be able to remember the few seconds after those words. There’s a rushing in his head and the feeling of fingernails in the skin of his ass, and then there’s nothing. He thinks the shouting he hears is his own voice.

When he opens his eyes again, he can see that his cock isn’t the only one jerking and pulsing in release. There’s laughter in his eyes when he looks up at Porthos.

Porthos’ grin is almost sheepish. “Can you blame me? Do you have any idea what you just looked like? Fuck, it’s a wonder I lasted this long."

Aramis leans forward and kisses every bit of love he feels into Porthos’ mouth. After he’s done, for good measure, he says it as well. “I love you, you dirty pervert.”

“I love you, too.”

They take the cleanup into the shower, enjoying the feel of each other for as long as they can. Porthos succeeds in dragging Aramis back to bed, and they twine themselves together again. As they’re drifting off, Porthos says into Aramis' hair, “I’m telling you now, I don’t care how hot it sounds when we’re talking about it. If you come on my couch? I’m going to be seriously pissed off.”

 

They spend the next thirty-six hours living as though Porthos doesn’t have to be on a ferry at the end of it. They tell stories and laugh and get the bedding filthy enough to scandalize even the most blasé of housekeepers, but despite their best efforts to ignore it, the time finally catches up to them.

Standing at the docks, waiting for the boat, all Aramis can think is that if it takes another three years to put his arms around Porthos again, he’s not going to make it. “Let’s not…”

“We won’t. You’re gone until the summer, I’m gone for about a month after that, we’ll make it work. I promise.” Aramis tries to remember a time when Porthos said the words I promise and didn’t follow through. He can’t think of a single one.

Porthos’ arms open and Aramis steps into them. Hold on to this, Aramis thinks. He wants to remember the press of Porthos’ face into his hair and the feeling of Porthos’ breath against his scalp. He wants to be able to bring to mind the exact part of his back covered by Porthos’ hands and how warm they are in the chilly morning. Porthos smells like hotel shampoo and Aramis’ cologne; the collar of his fatigue shirt is rubbing against Aramis’ cheek.

“Please be careful,” Aramis says, pressing a kiss into the skin of Porthos’ neck.

Porthos kisses his cheek. “I will; I don’t want to risk the wrath of your mother. Plus, if I make it back, then one day I can watch you try to explain to her why I got you an apron for Christmas.”

It is only laughing at that image that makes it possible for Aramis to loosen his arms and let Porthos step back.

“I love you, brother.”

“I love you too, Aramis.” As if he knows that neither one of them has much more restraint left, Porthos hitches his bag on to his shoulder. Before he turns to go he smiles and says, “I always miss you. Every day.”

Aramis is digging his fingernails into his palms to keep from clutching at Porthos and never letting him leave. “I miss you more.”

Porthos shrugs one shoulder and smiles; they need this ritual right now. “Probably.” And then he’s gone.

In a just world, it would be over in a flash. Porthos would walk up the ramp, and the ferry would vanish and Aramis wouldn’t be left standing on the pier for half an hour while he watches Porthos inch his way along in the line. He wants to grab Porthos and start running and never look back.

At sixteen maybe he would have, but in the decade since he first kissed Porthos they’ve both become people who understand responsibility, duty, honor. So he stands there as Porthos leaves; his hand raised in farewell and plea and benediction. He watches the lumbering boat pull away, and somehow he doesn’t shout or run after it.

Aramis shoves his fisted hands in his coat pockets as he watches the ferry grow smaller across the Ligurian Sea, and he wonders what kind of masochist he must be that he hasn’t turned away. He doesn’t start walking back to the base until the wake of the ferry has disappeared completely from the water.

 

 


	9. Twenty-eight - N'djamena (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That Monday he calls Porthos while he’s doing paperwork. He’s expecting to get voicemail and is surprised to hear the low rumble of his best friend’s voice, heavy and deep with sleep. “Aramis! Have you been eaten by a lion yet?”
> 
> “I’m somehow managing to avoid them by virtue of being in the middle of a major city, and also hundreds of miles away from the nearest lion population.”
> 
> “Eh. The day is still young, I suppose. I won’t give up hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got long and involved enough that I'm breaking it up. The second half will go up tomorrow morning. I would be lost without [ceeturnalia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/ceeturnalia) who helped me fall in love with my own characters and held my hand through the hard conversations. Thank you to my cheerleader/menace [etoiledemer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/etoiledemer/pseuds/etoiledemer), and to [breathtaken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken) for the perfect distractions when I was cranky and frustrated.
> 
> Tags updated for content/kinks.

The drive from Ndjamena to Abéché takes nine hours and forty-seven minutes. He’s been making it every week for more than a month, and the only time Aramis has ever been able to do it faster was the time he shaved five minutes off by pissing into an empty Gatorade bottle rather than pulling over.  
  
He won’t be able to do that today, of course, today he won’t be alone in the transport. On the other hand, having company makes the trip feel shorter. Having a distraction is nice because this trip is his assignment and therefore unavoidable, if it has to be done at least it can be done with company.  
  
The United Nations High Commission for Refugees has been overseeing camps near the Sudanese border for years, and last year they started asking for escorts, protection, any kind of help at all to keep their representatives safe on the roads and in the camps. Maybe it was reports of militia from over the border attacking the camps, perhaps it was the growing black market for weapons within the camps, Aramis may never know what constituted the final persuasive argument the UN made to get the French Army to allocate man-hours and a vehicle, but since mid-January, Aramis has been making the drive to the main camp at Abéché and back once a week accompanied by a stuffy Italian infectious disease specialist named Giancarlo.  
  
This week, though, promises to be a break in routine, at least. Aramis is at the base, waiting by the truck for Giancarlo to show up with this his replacement. Today is the first of the visits they’ll make together to transition her into the role. It’s mid-February, but the sun is already high and hot in the sky. Aramis is leaning extravagantly against the truck; legs stretched out in front of him and beret pulled down low over his eyes, when he hears laughing behind him.  
  
It’s been so long since Aramis heard a woman laugh that it takes a second for it to soak in. It isn’t a quiet, serene laughter like Lucia’s had been, nor does it have the bright, ringing tones of Emilia. Whoever she is laughs like someone has just told her the best dirty joke in the world; she even snorts a little at the end. Aramis is half in love with her before he even turns around.  
  
He quickly realizes he isn’t going to be able to take her all in, if he does it’s going to be obvious how attractive he finds her, and then he’ll have to spend nine hours and forty-seven minutes with a disapproving Giancarlo glaring at him from the back seat. Instead, Aramis notes her head of wild curls, her wide brown eyes, and the smattering of freckles against her dark skin. She’s tall, looking him almost in the eye as he reaches his hand out and introduces himself.  
  
The owner of the filthy laugh, Doctor Fatima Doumbia, takes his hand. Her palm is warm and dry against Aramis’, and if her personality is anything like her laugh and her smile, he’s going to enjoy every second of this week’s trip.  


It’s better, in fact.  
  
Despite the long, slim legs he can see beside him, and the criminal fullness of her lower lip, Aramis is determined not to make a move with Giancarlo in the transport with them. Instead, they spend those nine hours getting to know each other in the closest thing to an old-fashioned courtship it’s possible to achieve in an Acmat light tactical vehicle.  
  
She’s the oldest of three daughters in a Muslim family from southern Côte d’Ivoire, but she’d gone to medical school in Michigan, of all places. She graduated with a passion for virology and U-M football.  
  
“Why Michigan?” he asks.  
  
“Why not Michigan?” and there is that gorgeous laugh again. “I’m sorry. Serious answer now.”  She chews at her lower lip, mulling it over for a second. "I think you know that my country can be…”  
  
“Troubled?  Even at the best of times?”  
  
“Yes, that works. I’m committed to practicing medicine in places like that, but to learn I wanted someplace quieter. Also, there's only one medical school in the entire country, and though we are improving as a society, there are still places, like that school, where it's very difficult to be a woman.”  
  
“That makes sense.”  
  
“Does it?”  She flashes him a smile. “Sometimes it's hard to explain to other people. When I'm out in the camp, I want to know that the work I do for them is the best it can be. To do that I went somewhere to train where all I had to focus on was the learning. The civil war broke out while I was gone and I wanted to so much to be with my family, but my father called me and reminded me of why I was in America in the first place.”  
  
She’s staring out the window, and Aramis almost misses the crack in her voice. “He can be very traditional; I think he was surprised when I wanted to go into medicine in the first place. To have him be so supportive… it was very special to me."  
  
Aramis tries to lighten the mood; he has a feeling she doesn’t mind him seeing this, but she’s doing her best to keep it from Giancarlo in the back seat. “Also, there was the football.”  
  
Her laugh is magic.  
  
“Yes! I think my parents were not at all pleased to see me with my face painted and screaming in the stands; they had trouble seeing how that had anything to do with anatomy classes. I thought about protesting that I'm my own woman, raging about my need for independence. In the end, I simply sent them a picture of my invitation to the Dean’s List, that seemed to settle that argument.”   She flashes a grin at him.  
  
Aramis laughs, he can’t help it; it sounds like the kind of thing Porthos would do.  
  
She sleeps for a bit, and then when they’re back on the road after a bathroom stop, she asks him about himself. She teases out of him stories of his adventures with Porthos and his time on the Camino. He tells her about seminary and his parents. In return she tells him about her the pranks her sisters used to play on her, and the way her slightly over-protective father would scold her for climbing trees and scraping her knees. When she talks about her mother’s  _kedjenou_ , of how the vegetables smell as they’re cooking, Aramis thinks of his own mother’s  _empanadas_  and misses her fiercely.

He calls his parents that night, from the camp. It isn’t a long call, but hearing his mother's voice settles something inside him, and he sleeps better than he would have expected. Fatima and Giancarlo have a long Thursday full of meetings, while Aramis pitches in on some of the more physically demanding tasks around the headquarters trailers. A strong back never lacks for ways to stay busy.  
  
Aramis is looking forward to more conversation with Fatima and is disappointed when she spends most of the ride in the back seat with Giancarlo, huddled over notes and maps. If the look she flashes him in the rearview mirror is any indication, she’s disappointed as well.  


 

For the drive out the next week, she’s back in the front seat with him, and he hopes the smile he gives her shows how pleased he is about that. During the trip, he asks her about how she’d come to be doing work in the camps instead of working only in her own country. “Surely there’s enough demand for you there?”

“It was my epidemiology training, actually,” she says, pulling her hair up and twisting it into a riotous mass on top of her head. “I became fascinated with disease vectors in close-quarters populations and spent some time studying the progress of viruses in refugee camps. I believe at some point I must have mentioned it to exactly the wrong person because they sent me the information about UNHCR work not long after.”  
  
She looks at him then, and her smile hits him like a punch. “Perhaps, in retrospect, I mentioned it to exactly the  _right_  person."  
  
Fatima turns to stare at the trees and scrubland rolling past, and Aramis thinks,  _This woman is amazing. Please god, let me know her all my life._  
  
She asks him questions as well, and he tells her about his time in San Sébastian and his early childhood in Argentina. He talks about how his mother fusses, and how he still talks to them at least once a week. He tells her about living in that tiny flat with Porthos and, because he knows she’s heard worse, he tells her some of the stories from his Legion training.  
  
When he tells her about the twice-yearly march across Corsica, she cocks her head and reminds him that some of the refugees at Abéché did that same distance carrying similar weights, but without shoes. Aramis feels something in his worldview skew off an axis it will never come back to again. Fatima makes him aware of his place in the world in a way no one else ever has. It hurts, but he’s grateful for it.  
  
The ride back that week finds Fatima and Giancarlo in the same back-seat huddle as the previous week. Aramis tries to content himself with keeping his eyes on the road and pulling out memories of San Sébastian to think about.

The third trip with Giancarlo is his last, and they are frantically trying to pass on any last pieces information before the transfer. They are in their back-seat huddle for both parts of the drive and Aramis finds himself eagerly looking forward to the next week. Giancarlo leaves for a camp in Burkina Faso on Monday, and on Wednesday Aramis will do this trip with Fatima alone.

 

 

Never has a Monday dragged for Aramis like that one does. He lets Kaminski put him through a punishing PT regimen just for something to do, and on Tuesday he’s so bored he helps Wade catch up on paperwork. When Wednesday finally arrives, Aramis finds himself unexpectedly nervous. Fatima tosses her bag into the back and climbs up into the cab with him. She’s wearing shorts for the drive, and his mouth goes a little dry at the sight of her legs.  
  
She just grins at him, and then laughs when he blushes. She laughs like a happy child, and it is totally disarming. Aramis looks at her and thinks that of all the places in the world he expected to find love, the road to Abéché wasn’t one of them.  
  
As they drive the silence settles over them like mosquito netting, protective and safe, giving them both the room to breathe. Making the space between them welcoming rather than stifling. She’s looking out the window, watching the acacia trees go by and not even looking at him when he feels her fingers slide between his on the steering wheel. He just keeps his grip steady and presses his fingers together, sandwiching hers between them and feeling her skin against his own.  
  
They stop for a break to stretch their legs at a small petrol station in Ati, and when they get back inside the transport, she turns to him and smiles. Aramis watches her eyes flick to his mouth, then back to his eyes again, and he decides it’s worth a shot. He says, “May I?” just before he leans slowly toward her side of the truck. He stops when he’s inches from her face, giving her a chance to push him back, to say no, laugh, anything. Instead, she lets one side of her mouth curl up into a smile and flicks her eyes to his lips again.  
  
Aramis closes the distance between them and kisses her. There is simply no feeling in the world, he knows, like a first kiss. She cups his face in her hands and kisses him back, sighing as though she’s been thinking about this since Giancarlo introduced them. Before long she puts her palms against his chest and pushes him away saying, “Abéché,” and the moment is over.  
  
Her smile reassures him that the kiss had been welcomed, wanted even, but that the desire of two people to keep kissing until the sun goes down pales in comparison to their obligations. She slips her hand into his again as he pulls the transport back onto the road, and she doesn’t let go until they’re outside the camp.  
  
It is a day, it seems, for taking risks and testing his instincts, so while she’s in her meetings he flat-out bribes one of the Médecins Sans Frontières doctors for a turn in their shower. As he’s scrubbing the road dust from his hair, the ritual born during his time at Aubagne comes back to him. He thinks of his name, who he is to Porthos and his parents. He thinks of his love, of Porthos, and how much he would like Fatima. He’s smiling as he wrestles his fatigues back on over damp skin and goes back to the transport to eat dinner and wait for the sun to go down.  
  
When full dark has come, Aramis heads for the tent where she’s staying. He is more nervous than he’s been about any other romantic overture since the first time he kissed Porthos in their park in Paris. More accustomed to being the pursued than the pursuer in his life, he’s not entirely certain he’s read the signals correctly. He scratches at the fabric of her tent door and coughs as lightly as he can.  
  
Fatima opens the door to find him standing there, freshly clean and scrubbed, and meets his eyes with a kind but inquisitive look. She doesn’t say a word until Aramis shifts from one foot to the other, his beret in his hands, and says, “My apologies, I believe I may have misunderstood.”  
  
“Aramis, you and I both know this is a  _terrible_  idea, yes?”  
  
He scrubs at the back of his neck and smiles, looking at her from under his eyelashes, “Ah, but you do agree that it  _is_  an idea you’ve had as well."  
  
“I’ve spent fifty hours in that car with you; I’d have to be stupid not to have had this idea.”  Her teeth worry at her bottom lip, and he watches the skin dimple under them. “This can’t interfere with my work. Or yours.”  
  
“My dear,” he puts an offended hand to his chest. “I am a consummate professional.”  
  
“If that were true you wouldn’t be standing here right now.”  She hooks a finger in the collar of his shirt and reels him in. “This is a bad idea,” she says, and then she kisses him.  
  
Here’s what he’d guessed before that night: She’d be fun, but not particularly adventurous. She’d want him to kiss her, stroke her face while he looked into her eyes. If they’d been somewhere quiet, she might have moaned and whispered his name when she came.  
  
Here’s what will know after:  Making love to Fatima is like trying to fuck a tornado.  
  
She’s unpredictable, and she comes like a freight train. If she thinks Aramis isn’t paying attention she doesn’t hesitate to throw him around, and if he expects her to leave her sense of humor at the door, he is sadly mistaken. That first night he cups her breasts tenderly, brushing his thumbs gently over her nipples, listening for a gasp, a moan, anything.  
  
“Aramis, they’re not baby bunnies. You needn't be quite so careful.”   Grinning up at her, he takes her nipples between his thumb and forefinger and pinches them, rolling them as he presses. She hisses and grins back. “Yes, better.”  
  
After that it is like nothing so much as a wrestling match. He finally has to use a trick that he’d learned from a  _capora_ l from Liberia; it works surprisingly well even without the parachute cord that had been part of his original lesson. What Aramis hasn’t counted on, clearly, is the superior flexibility of a woman used to narrowly avoiding being puked on by sick toddlers.  
  
Fatima ducks into him and then twists and Aramis finds himself on is back on the cot, staring at the inside of the tent roof, with her full weight on his shins and her mouth on his boxers directly over his cock. She licks one stripe up the length of him and then sits back on her heels.  
  
“I have a proposal for you. If you can keep quiet through everything I’m about to do to you, I’ll let you fuck me. If you can’t, you’ll have to wait until next week’s trip and try again.”  
  
He looks at her curiously until she explains, “It’s a tent, Aramis. It’s not exactly soundproof, and I can’t have my role at tomorrow’s meetings compromised by the fact that everyone else heard you yelling your head off in my bed.”  
  
“And you’re so absolutely certain you’ll have me yelling?”  
  
The look she gives him is dripping with so much derision that Aramis won’t see it equaled for almost a decade; he will only meet its match the first time he asks Athos, “Are you sure you’ve thought this plan through?”  
  
She pulls his cock out through the fly of his boxers and nudges his knees open. He drops his legs off either side of the cot and feels the air move across the head of his dick. Her mouth is nothing short of glorious. She’s breathing, hot and damp, over the fabric covering his balls, letting his cock drag against the skin of her cheek, turning to kiss it and feel it in her hand. He’s staying quiet, but only just, and when she wraps her lips around the head at the same time she strokes her fingers up the inside of his thigh and brushes them across his balls, he bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from telling her how good it feels.  
  
Her fingers are stroking inside the leg of his boxers, anywhere she can reach, but she’s impatient and before long is stripping the underwear from him, stopping only long enough to smile in approval before putting her lips on him again. He’s thrashing enough that she can’t be doubting her technique, but Aramis realizes she hasn’t yet given up on her chances of making him cry out when she swipes her knuckle through the pool of spit forming at the base of his cock and then brushes it against his hole.  
  
He doesn’t stop moving, not for a second. Aramis presses his hips down and against her, looking for more pressure from her knuckle, more wetness from her mouth. She's got her hair spread out over his belly and thighs, and her eyelashes are flush against her cheeks and god, she is just so beautiful.  
  
She presses further into him, and he grabs the rails on the sides of the cot and arches so hard he can feel the skin between his shoulder blades come off the bedding. He feels like he should warn her, but he doesn't want to pull her hair. Instead he finds himself ineffectually swatting at her arm.  
  
"Want me to stop?"  
  
Aramis smirks up at the tent roof. "Far from it, but if you keep that up, I'm going to come in about twenty seconds, and I thought you might like a warning."  
  
"Why, Aramis, what a surprise you are."  She rubs her knuckle over him again, pushing in and twisting, and he can feel himself stretching around her. His breath comes fast and hard through his nose, and he refuses to make noise. "I would have expected this to send a nice boy like you running for the safety of your truck."  
  
Aramis lets out a quiet huff of a laugh. "I would have expected you to know I'm not a nice boy."  
  
Fatima smirks and then sucks on her first two fingers. When they're sloppy with spit, she curls over him, so her mouth is by his ear and slides both fingers into him, achingly slow.  
  
"Later, Aramis, when soundproofing is not a concern, you're going to tell me all about all the amazing things you've had inside you before my fingers."  She twists them, and it seems as if every muscle in his face clenches. "But first, I want you to come for me."  
  
She sits back on her heels and with her other hand she strokes him, fast and hard, no finesse or fancy technique, but with her fingers inside him like they are it's more than enough. He can feel the scream form behind his lips, but he manages to keep it together as his release spatters down on her hand and his chest.  
  
While his breathing comes back to normal, she slides her fingers out and then wipes her hands and his chest clean with baby wipes. As she's pitching the wipes toward the box she's using as a trashcan she says, "Not all of us have access to the fancy showers here, so you'll have to live with wipes."  
  
She comes back to the cot, stretching out beside him and resting her head on her hands where they're folded in the center of his chest. He bends his head to kiss her. "You are a revelation."  
  
She scoffs, and he says, "I expected many things in this desert, but nothing could have prepared me for you."  
  
"You're just saying that because now I'm going to fuck you."  
  
"Not  _right_  now you're not."  He takes her by the shoulders, pulling her up closer to him so that he can kiss her more thoroughly. When they're home, when they have a bed and time and privacy, he's going to kiss her for hours because oh, she's making the most amazing noises and she's so lush under his mouth.  
  
With his hands on her ribcage he tugs her further up, taking the opportunity to lick at her collarbones, to drag his teeth over her neck, to suck at the skin on the sides of her breasts. He can feel her pussy, hot and wet against his belly and he wants it so much he can already taste it, but he takes the time to rake his teeth over her nipples, to tug at them and hear her gasp. Yes, when they have time, he's going to spend every second of it on her.  
  
When he gets his hands around her hips and pulls her heat up to his face, he thinks, for a second, that she might protest. Aramis kisses at the inside of her thighs, giving her a moment to pull back if she wants to, to pull away. Instead, she settles her knees on either side of his head and drags her nails across his scalp one last time before tugging his head up to her cunt.  
  
"Alright, soldier, you wanted this. Now show me what you've got.”  
  
It’s been too long, and he's forgotten how nice this is. He's forgotten how he loves exploring a woman like this, just dragging his tongue through her folds and hearing her breathe. She likes it softer than Emilia, harder than Claire, but it’s Lucia’s words he hears in his head. “The first time you pleasure a woman,” she’d told him, “simply pay attention. Listen to her, and when you find something that seems to work particularly well, carry on with that until she comes or tells you to stop. You can fine-tune your technique later."  
  
He finds that bowing out his tongue and grinding the flat of it just above the head of her clit is perfect for her. She's twisting her nipples viciously above him, and he makes a note of that for later. As she comes she digs her fingernails in, and he's worried she's going to draw blood, but it's her body and she knows what works for her. He just wraps his arms around her hips, stroking his fingers over her lower back as she drips into his mouth.  
  
Aramis notes, smugly that she made more noise than he did.  
  
The intercourse itself is almost anticlimactic. It's clear they're both holding back, later they'll both say they wish they'd waited until they were home for this act. For now, though, he pulls a condom from his pocket and kisses his way up her thigh as he's rolling it on. He tugs one of her knees up, opening her to him, and lets her guide him in.  
  
It’s gentle, gentler than it will ever be with them again, and sweet. He rocks into her, pressing his thumb where he remembers she liked feeling his tongue. They're content to feel someone else's skin against their own, to feel lips against their necks and words whispered in their ears about how good it feels. Half an hour later he feels her orgasm, light and fast, around him and hears her sigh in his ear.  
  
Aramis imagines how she will be, the sounds she will make, when the moment is theirs and not held hostage by the ears that might be listening outside. The idea of her, back arched and hair loose, riding him to release, is enough to push him over the edge just after her.  
  
They kiss, and touch, and enjoy the quiet presence of each other. Eventually she says, "You have to be gone before sun-up."  
  
"But I can stay until then?"  
  
"Mmm... I suppose."  With a smirk, she turns on her side and spoons herself back into him, pulling his arm around her chest and falling asleep with the kind of speed he's only seen from doctors or soldiers. He scatters kisses over her shoulder and thinks about her life.  
  
She's soldier these days, as well as doctor. She worries about shelling and supply chains and the price of guns on the black market. Fatima's every day is packed with worrying about others and somehow, miraculously, she always finds more to give.  
  
He knows, even now, that he's in love with her. He also knows how selfish it would be to think she has room for that right now. So instead he whispers it into her hair, kisses the curve of her neck, and lets himself sleep.

They share a tent the next night as well, content to kiss and touch for a while before the work of the day catches up with them, and they drift off to sleep. If Aramis expected the ride home to be awkward or tense, he needn’t have worried. It is as companionable as it always is; she’s not the type to have regrets later. She just holds his hand on the bench seat between them and dozes in the sun coming through the window.  
  
When they are pulling back into N’djamena, she invites him to her flat for dinner the next night. He hopes his smile as he says, “Yes,” isn’t as unabashedly goofy as it feels.  


 

He'd known she was living in the same flat Giancarlo had lived in, that it rotated through UN officers in the area, so he isn't surprised by the Spartan, institutional nature of it. She makes him dinner, though he will hardly remember eating, and they spend the rest of the night feasting on each other.  
  
He'd been right; alone in her bedroom with walls around them and all the time in the world she’s a terror. A loud terror. She gets her cunt around him and refuses to move until he tells her all about the first cock he'd taken. The expression on her face when he asks "Real, or fake?" is a memory he'll treasure for the rest of his days.  
  
She’s spent years working with surgeons and soldiers, gathering an extensive vocabulary of profanity, and she unleashes every word of it when she's on her hands and knees before him with his hips slapping against her ass.  
  
Aramis learns that first night in her flat that she likes it rougher, louder, and filthier than anyone he's ever been to bed with except Porthos, but where sex with Porthos can often be quiet, tender even, Fatima seems to use sex as a way to unspool the coil of emotions and tension she keeps under iron-fisted control all day. She talks constantly.  
  
She tells him how good it feels, how much she loves having his fingers in her cunt, his mouth on her skin. When he bends her over a chair in her bedroom, she tells him how she hopes someone will see them through the window, will see him fucking his cock into her while she strokes her clit. He nips the flesh of her breast, and she cries out, digging her fingernails into his shoulders and telling him how fucking good it feels when he does that.  
  
He knows that he’ll feel it the next day when the salt of his sweat runs down into the marks on his back. He looks forward to the surprising moment of tender soreness when he discovers a new bruise or bite mark. When the storm of their lovemaking passes, she soothes his scratches with kisses and strokes at his hair as he rests his head on her thighs.  
  
Aramis turns his head to press a kiss to the top of her knee, soaking up the pleasure of her company before he has to get up and go back to the base.

 

  
That Monday he calls Porthos while he’s doing paperwork. He’s expecting to get voicemail and is surprised to hear the low rumble of his best friend’s voice, heavy and deep with sleep. “Aramis!  Have you been eaten by a lion yet?”  
  
“I’m somehow managing to avoid them by virtue of being in the middle of a major city, and also hundreds of miles away from the nearest lion population.”  
  
“Eh. The day is still young, I suppose. I won’t give up hope.”  
  
“I’m going to tell my mother you’re being mean to me.”  
  
“She loves me best anyway. If you’re not being savaged by the wildlife what are you up to?”  
  
“Paperwork. It’s taking forever because I’m not really paying attention.”  
  
Porthos laughs, and Aramis knows he must be terribly transparent. What Porthos says next confirms that.  
  
“What’s she like?”  
  
“Oh god, Porthos. I’ve never met anyone like her."  
  
For the next forty minutes, Aramis pecks away at his reports while he tells Porthos about Fatima. He talks about her history, her family, the way she is with the kids at the camps. Children will always be a soft spot for Porthos; he makes a noise of please approval at that bit.  
  
Aramis knows he must be repeating himself in some kind of rambling litany of the things he loves about her, but he can’t seem to stop himself. Porthos asks all the right questions, and when Aramis finally winds down Porthos says, “I like knowing you’re not alone there.”  
  
And that’s his Porthos, right there. Aramis feels his heart grow tight in his chest, but before he can say anything else Porthos mutters a curse.  
  
“Ah fuck, I’ve just seen the time. I have to go. Call me next week and tell me the rest?  Love you, brother. Miss you!”  
  
Aramis barely has time to yell back “I miss you, too!” before the line is dead.  
  
Their call the next week starts off with Porthos talking about an impromptu class in disarming IEDs before he says, “Tell me something nice. Tell me more about your girl.”  Aramis is happy to oblige.  
  
By the first week in April, Porthos knows almost as much about Fatima as Aramis does. He’s learned to stop Aramis before the more graphic details get started; he says he wants to save those until Aramis can tell him about them in person. Aramis laughs, calling Porthos a filthy pervert.  
  
“Why do you always say that as though you don’t love it?” Porthos asks. He’s right, of course, Aramis loves it.

  
  
That Wednesday they are back in the transport, tearing down the road as fast as the terrain will let them. In the midst of a companionable silence, Fatima reaches over and slides her hand over Aramis’ where it’s curved around the steering wheel. She’s not being seductive; she just likes touching him. He rubs his thumb over the knuckle of her smallest finger and smiles at her and remembers the first time she'd touched him it was just that same motion.  
  
 She has her elbow propped where the window would be if he were stupid enough to keep it up in this godforsaken heat; her face is turned towards him and fat black curls are blowing across her smiling face. The sun is bright enough for him to see her freckles against her dark skin and her eyes are liquid and black.  _Utterly stunning_ , he thinks and wishes he could just pull over here, stake out the emergency tent that’s in the back, and make love to her for hours.  
  
Aramis sighs; it’s impossible, he knows. While  _he_  might just get a reprimand from his superior officers, she’s got children and families depending on her arrival at the other end of this drive.  
  
Like Giancarlo, she’s a doctor by training; also like her predecessor she’s somehow become enmeshed in this role of part diplomat, part project manager, part doctor, part therapist. Unlike Giancarlo, she’s thriving in it.  
  
As they pull up to the camp, Aramis turns the radio off and slows to a pace that won’t kick up dust and dirt for miles around. The command offices are in trailers and Aramis doesn’t even try not to watch Fatima’s legs and ass as she climbs the stairs. She waves back at him as she goes through door of the trailer marked HQ to drop off her reports and outline what she thinks they need to discuss during the next day’s meetings.  
  
He doesn’t grasp all of the intricacies of the camps and how they’re run, but even so he looks forward to hearing her talk about what the current issues are simply because he loves her passion. He loves to see her eyes when she thinks she’s done something that will really make a difference. He loves to see her spitting mad at injustice and watch as her mind twists around all the ways she can help fix it.  
  
Looking for something to do, Aramis pops the hood on the transport and does a quick spot check on the fluid levels and belts. He checks the tires and makes sure the ditch they’d hit coming out of Ati hadn’t popped any part of the exhaust loose.  
  
Stretched out in the dirt under the truck, Aramis thinks back on the things he knows of her. He knows the names of her sisters and that she still misses the staggering variety of American breakfast cereals. He knows that the way her fingers move when she’s giving a vaccination is as beautiful to him as watching a pianist play, and the way she smiles at the child when she pulls the needle out and puts the bandage on is like watching the dawn.  
  
She loves the stew her mother makes for the New Year’s Day celebrations and Jeremy Brett best as Sherlock Holmes. She’s told him about how she sometimes still cries thinking about the land around her childhood home; she can still describe every inch. Even knowing all of that, nothing Aramis knows about her will ever mean as much to him as the way she makes him feel when she settles her feet in his lap at the end of a long day and stares at him dreamily while he rubs at her arches with his thumbs.  
  
Between them is a current. She's sending trust, safety and the knowledge that he’s treasured over to him in waves, he’s pushing love, delight and joy back to her in the undertow.  
  
If this week’s trip keeps to the same schedule as the others, after the meetings she’ll wander through the parts of the camp right around the offices just checking in on some of her favorite residents. Before the sun sets she’ll wipe the dust of the day off with a baby wipe and eat a pre-packed dinner, and get ready for bed. Once the sun sets, like he’s done every week since that first trip without Giancarlo, Aramis will stand outside the door to her tent, and he’ll cough as lightly as he can.  
  
For the moment, he's here in the camp, waiting. Waiting for them to perform the rest of the steps in their dance of discretion. Finding comfort where you can get it is not a novel concept in a warzone, but he's trying to be careful anyway. If for no other reason than he wants to be able to make this same trip with her again next week.  
  
That night in her tent is fast and fierce and quiet. Afterward, in the dark with the sweat cooling on their skin, he twines his fingers with hers like they had been on the steering wheel that first time. He kisses her knuckles and bites the pads of her fingers and thinks about the wonder of a world that lets them find each other in a place like this.

 

  
Friday Aramis drives her home, kisses her goodbye and promises to come by later after he's checked the transport back in and filed his report. He's bought a second-hand bike so that he doesn't have to answer questions from the motor pool officer, and he's got a spare uniform at her flat. He's trusted only Wade with his whereabouts and his mobile number in case of emergencies. He has an entire weekend ahead of him, and he wants to spend it wrapped around Fatima.  
  
He stops at a stand for mangoes, so that later he can watch the juices run down her chin. When he gets to her flat Fatima has showered the dust of the road off her skin, and is wandering around in a pair of her scrub bottoms and a t-shirt emblazoned with U-M Football that’s worn so threadbare it’s practically transparent. Aramis has to stop and catch his breath.  
  
She’s got dinner ready, a concoction of rice and beans she says is a recipe from her mother, and while they eat they tell stories. Fatima trades the story of the time her youngest sister accidentally stole a goat for Aramis' story of his mother sending Porthos birthday cards.  
  
She laughs around a mouthful of bread and after she chews and swallows she says, "You love him, don't you?"  
  
Aramis can see in her face what she means, even before she clarifies by saying "You're  _in love_  with him." He does her the honor of not trying to lie. It's the first time he's ever told anyone else.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Her smile is warm. "And me?"  
  
He strokes his thumb over her chin and kisses her lips, close-mouthed and soft. "Oh, yes."  
  
She cups the back of his head and kisses him in return. "Isn't the heart a wonderful thing?"  
  
Aramis kisses her again, but this time he nips at her lower lip. She growls in response, and he pulls her closer. The kisses grow heated, and he can feel her hands clutching at him, guiding him. He loves this fire in her. As much as he loves to see it when she’s in charge, he loves the way she sparks under him as well.  
  
That he manages to get her up on the table, scrubs down around her ankles, without breaking any dishes or getting her hair in the food, is something of a miracle. As is the sound she makes when he pulls her scrubs completely off her legs and buries his face in her cunt. When she is wet and open for him, when her fingernails are leaving deep crescents in his scalp, he grabs her behind the knees and drags her to the edge of the table.  
  
It’s not graceful, the way he fumbles for the condom in his pocket, the way he slams his knee into the table leg, the way she knocks a water bottle onto the floor, but somehow it all comes together and they finish a happy, sweaty mess. Aramis has collapsed against her chest and is enjoying feeling it heave under him.  
  
“Did that get your heart rate up, Doctor Doumbia?”  
  
“Pff. Barely.”  
  
He snaps at the underside of her breast, feeling the skin pinch between his teeth.  
  
She hisses out a “Fuck!” and slaps him on the ear.  
  
They call a truce long enough to clean up, and take their tired, sore bodies to bed.  
  
In the warm light of the next morning, Fatima lays him out on the bed, arms over his head and legs splayed open, and kisses him everywhere but his cock. She starts at his eyebrows, her mouth soft and tender. At his neck she’s more forceful, and his cock is starting to thicken; he’s surprised when her teeth scraping over the palm of his hand makes it jerk.  
  
She skips his chest entirely and instead grips her fingers around his ankles, biting near the back of his knees, nipping at the soft skin inside his thighs. He can feel himself hardening, feeling his cock curling up against his belly. By the time her fingernails dig into the skin on either side of his navel he’s starting to drip onto himself and crying out at her touch.  
  
When she finally puts a startlingly soft kiss to the skin just at the hollow of his left hip, his cock is an angry purple, and he’s begging her for her fingers, her mouth anything. Anything.  
  
She wraps her fingers around the base of his cock and squeezes. Aramis can feel his toes curl; his entire body goes tense and quiet as he feels the orgasm backing down bit by bit. When he finally feels like can control himself, Aramis realizes he can’t feel her lips anymore.  
  
He opens his eyes to find her kneeling next to his chest, looking into his face. “I was worried you’d fainted dead away. I thought perhaps I’d have to get the smelling salts and slap you across the face a bit just to wake you.”  With that she pats his cheek just a little too hard and then smiles in surprise when his pupils go wide and his nostrils flare.  
  
“Oh, yes?” she asks and does it again, harder. He bites his lip, and his toes curl, and god he’s never even known this was something to ask for, but it’s perfect. It’s perfect.  
  
“Again?” she asks.  
  
His  _Please_  is just a whisper, and then her hand is coming across his cheek again. It’s barely enough to be considered a slap, certainly nothing close to the strikes Porthos has lain against his ass, but the intimacy of it against his face is somehow so much more potent.  
  
As she’s reaching into the bedside table to fish out a condom she says, “You will never know how beautiful you look right now, that bright pink splash across your cheek, and how your eyes are pleading for more.”  She rolls the condom on to him and sits back on her heels. “Would you like another?”  
  
“Always.”  
  
Straddling his thighs she slaps him again and his back arches until she has to reach out and steady herself against the bed. “Would you-“ her voice cuts off with a gasp as she sinks down onto him. “Would you like to know something, Aramis?”  
  
He curls his hands around her hips, and groans at how hot she is, at how somehow each time it feels better than the last. “Always,” he says.  
  
Fatima takes his hands and pulls them around her hips until he’s cupping her ass in both palms. “It works here, too,” she says and smirks at him.  
  
She rolls her hips against him, a laugh bubbling out of her along with a gasp, and then the loudest sound in the room is the crack of his hand landing on her skin. With one hand outstretched she tips forward to brace herself against his chest. “God, that is perfect, yes.”  
  
Aramis’ smile is wicked. “Again?”  
  
“Yes. And again.”  
  
Next time, he promises himself, he’ll do this from an angle where he can see her ass. He wants to watch his handprint appear and disappear against her skin. For a second, he worries he’s putting too much force into it, but she looks straight into his face and says “Harder?” and that’s all the permission he needs.  
  
She falls apart in a way he’s never seen from her before and god, she is so beautiful. Her face is slack and her eyes soft, and she’s just rolling her hips into him again and again as his hand comes down on her. He’s used to her movement becoming jerky and fast when she’s close, used to her talking to him, honest and filthy. This time, though, she just keeps curling her hips into him at the same angle, her mouth open but silent, until suddenly she’s crying out, and her voice is a sob.  
  
Aramis can feel her spasming around him and her fingernails in his shoulders, and then she’s collapsed against his chest. He smoothes his hand down the length of her back and whispers endearments into her ear. “That was incredible.  _You_  are incredible. I am the luckiest man. I love you. Thank you.”  
  
After a few moments, she raises her head and looks at him, a question in her eyes. He brushes the hair back from her face and kisses her. “Stop. If you think coming would have made that better for me, you weren’t paying attention. We’re not keeping score.”   He kisses her again, and then just holds her against his chest until her breathing gets soft and even.

  
He wakes an hour or so later to find that she’s making coffee and heating leftovers for breakfast. She points to where the cup she made for him is sitting on the counter. Over the food and the morning paper, he thinks back to the conversations from the night before.  
  
“You asked me, last night, about Porthos. You asked if I am in love with him.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“And you know I am in love with you.”  
  
Her smile is soft and happy. “Yes.”  
  
“You aren’t jealous?”  
  
Fatima takes his and, stroking her thumb over his knuckles. “No.”  
  
“Is it because he’s so far away that you don’t have to worry about him?  Or is it because he’s not in love with me?”  
  
She stares at him for a long moment before moving to a small bookcase in the corner of the room. It’s mostly medical textbooks, but there’s a slim volume of what he assumes is poetry on the bottom shelf. She plucks it from its place and brings it over to the table. From between two pages she pulls a picture of two people clenched in a smiling embrace. One of the people is Fatima, younger than she is now, but not by much. The other is a fireplug of a man only a hair taller than she is. His hair is a short fuzz of strawberry blond, and his eyes are kind and blue. Her finger traces the edge of his face.  
  
“This is Pawel. We met when I was in medical school. He was in America studying engineering. I fell in love with his mind probably two seconds after I met him; I fell in love with the rest of him not long after. The kindest soul, and so funny. I’ve never met anyone who makes me feel like Pawel.”  
  
Aramis brushes a stray curl away from her forehead and asks, “What happened?  How did it end?”  
  
Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t for her to say, “It didn’t.”  
  
“I’m sorry?”  
  
“It didn’t end. I spoke to him yesterday evening before you got here. About you, actually. I told him about how my feelings for you had grown and that it was time to talk to you about-“ she waves her hand around, “-us. Him and me.”  
  
Aramis frowns. For a moment he feels like he did when he spoke to Claire, like the floor is about to drop from beneath his feet. His face is hot and sweat is pricking at the back of his neck. “I- I don’t understand.”  
  
“Aramis. I have never met anyone who makes me feel like Pawel. And I will never meet anyone who makes me feel like you do. It is not a competition. I love others, I love him, I love you. Just as in your heart you love me, and you love Porthos, and it is not a competition.”  
  
“But Porthos doesn’t-“  
  
“It’s not about his heart. It’s about  _your_  heart. The fact that you love me and the fact that you love him are almost entirely unrelated. It is like planting two kinds of flowers in a garden. If you have the time and love to care for both, and you are of a mind to, then grow them both. Not everyone does, but you do. Your heart does."  
  
Aramis feels like he’s been falling from a great height only to land safely with both feet under him. He’s disoriented but giddy.  
  
“Your heart, my heart, they are not broken or wrong, they are only different from some others. Gloriously so, sometimes. Think about this,” she says. “When I tell you I love Pawel, that I will always love him, but that how I love him will never affect how I love you, does it make you jealous?”  
  
Aramis has to think about it for a minute. He pokes at the edges of his heart to see if he can feel the creeping vines of anger. He looks inside himself for resentment, the worry that there will be time of hers she chooses to spend on this other man and not on Aramis. The fear of those feelings is there, but not the feelings themselves. He thinks he  _ought_  to be jealous and angry, but he knows that he’s not.  
  
“I’m not, no. Not now. But right now you’re here with me, I don’t know how I will feel if someday I see you with him.”  
  
“Picture that moment then, keeping in your mind that you know I love you. I don’t know what you imagine as the encounter, but assume that whatever is happening, I’m happy. Perhaps he and I are out to dinner some night, and you are at the same restaurant with a friend. I am laughing, and Pawel is holding my hand. Are you angry?”  
  
“How can I be angry if something is making you happy?”  
  
Fatima squeezes his hand and tucks the picture of Pawel back into the book. “You will be fine, my love. And if you’re not, we’ll talk about it."  
  
She gets up to put the book away, but he tugs her back for a kiss. “I love you.”  
  
“And I love you. Come on now; let’s go to the market. You can help me pick out fish for dinner, and later I can make it up to you for this morning. Don’t lie, Aramis, a little part of you is keeping score.”  
  
Aramis is sure there has ever been a woman more beautiful than she is at that moment, the sun shooting through her hair and her eyes alight with mischief. When he thinks  _Porthos would love her_ , he feels his heart swell in a way that is not broken or wrong, not even a little.

 

  
It’s Wednesday, the day they normally set out for the weekly trip, and Aramis calls Fatima just after dawn. She answers with the coherent efficiency of a woman used to getting terrible calls at unholy hours.  
  
“We’re not going this week,” he says.  
  
“Is everything alright?”  
  
“I can’t tell you, I wish I could.”  
  
“Can’t or won’t?”  
  
Aramis sighs, she knows him and she knows this goddamn place and she knows this game so well. “Can’t. They’re not even telling my team or me. Just that we’re staying in the city this week, sticking close to the base. Do you want someone to come get you? You might be safer--”  
  
“Stop.”  Her tone is a solid wall. “I’m not a delicate flower, Aramis. Two months of driving me into hell and back should have taught you that. I’ll be fine. Come see me when it’s over?”  
  
“I will.”  He lets the silence settle for a minute, that sweet quiet they are capable of. “I love you.”  
  
He can almost feel her fingers trace his face when she speaks. “And I love you. Do I need to tell you to be safe?  Or will you do it simply because you fear the combined repercussions of me and that wall of a man you call your best friend?”  
  
“As if I fear him half as much as I fear you. I’ll be safe. I’ll call you tomorrow.”   He ends the call with the press of a button and taps the phone against his smiling mouth.  
  
Except he doesn’t call her the next day. He doesn’t call anyone the next day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I never again decide to write something that involves a crash course in West African politics.


	10. Twenty-eight - N'djamena (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re strapped into an insignia-free chopper in less than half an hour and dropped on the roof of a building on the east side of the city before four a.m. They can see the advancing mass of rebels, can hear them shouting to each other and are able to pick up a few commands and hints of what’s to come.
> 
> There isn’t anything to do but wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Violence. See end notes.

His commander wakes him just after three on Thursday morning.  
  
“Up!  You and the rest of your band of assholes!  There’s a UFDC rebel contingent setting up for an attack on the outskirts of the city.”  
  
Aramis is awake, on his feet and taking in the details before his  _caporal chef_  has finished speaking. The United Front for Democratic Change has been pushing into the country from the east for months, but they’ve never made it this far. “Sir, are the government troops already there?”  
  
“You and I both know the government forces couldn’t hold them back forever. They asked us to be out there.”  
  
Aramis has his trousers on and is lacing up his boots. “How many of us are going?”  
  
“I can’t tell you that. I can tell you that Déby doesn’t want anyone knowing they’ve asked for help, so you’re going in quiet. Tell Rogers and that fucking Russian to keep their cowboy shit under wraps today.”  
  
Aramis salutes and watches his officer leave before tucking in the tail of his shirt and going to wake the rest of his team. Of course the president doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s asked for help, his entire government is based on him having perfect control at all times. Aramis is trying not to feel just a little thrill at the idea of finally getting to do what he’s been trained for instead of terminally boring watch shifts and playing taxi, as enjoyable as it is, for Fatima.  
  
They’re strapped into an insignia-free chopper in less than half an hour and dropped on the roof of a building on the east side of the city before four a.m. They can see the advancing mass of rebels, can hear them shouting to each other and are able to pick up a few commands and hints of what’s to come.  
  
There isn’t anything to do but wait. Karpov eats, having failed to bolt down a protein bar in the helicopter like the rest of them. Kaminski naps with his head against a pillar, trusting Wade to wake him when it’s time. Rasool and Pereira are making up conversations for the people they can see on the ground. Rogers is spot-cleaning his weapon in a terrifyingly graphic manner.  
  
It’s Kaminski who calls it out. “Rogers!  Quit jerking off your rifle, my dick is getting jealous!”  
  
Karpov laughs hard enough to end up coughing on bits of dry cracker; Aramis just rolls his eyes.  
  
It’s five-thirty before there’s a chance for them to do anything at all. He’s watching the national Army set up a blockade on the street, and watching the rebel troops setup to fight their way through it. As the leader of the UFDC troops raises a grenade launcher to his shoulder Aramis realizes it’s time, he takes aim and shoots him in the face. There’s a burst of startled noise as the men standing around the victim look around to see where the shot came from and wipe the blood from their faces.  
  
Everything after that is a blur of running, moving, hiding, aiming.  
  
They make their way down to the ground and spend the early morning sneaking around corners, firing insanely powerful weapons into crowds of rebels and trying to keep the government troop casualties to a minimum. Some time after eight the call comes from command that transport is on its way, the rebels have massed at the National Assembly building.  
  
Aramis and the team scramble into the bed of the Toyota pick-up that comes screeching to a stop in front of them just a few minutes later. They’ve barely found handholds before the truck is off again, and in a few minutes they’re jumping back out, the ugly industrial building of the National Assembly behind them and the Bibliothèque National in front of them.  
  
They take a minute to check their straps, their weapons, and come up with a plan. The UFDC troops are concentrated in the parade grounds in front of the Assembly building; the Chadian military is fighting them back. It’s Aramis’ goal to take out the leaders currently hiding in the middle. With the right vantage point, he knows they can do it; they just need to get inside and get to the roof.  
  
The building has come under heavy fire since the rebels first arrived, and it’s a mess of broken glass and scattered bricks but Aramis spots a door and they make for it. They’re just a handful of meters away when Karpov spots the men in the trees and shouts for the team to stop.  
  
Aramis sees them, then. The one on the lower branches is maybe eighteen; the one climbing the tree is in his early twenties, at most. Karpov shoots the kid; it’s a clean center-of-mass shot and the boy falls in a heap of dirty clothing, his gun clattering on the ground. Rogers takes aim at the one climbing the tree. Aramis will never forget the sight of the rebel’s head slamming forward into the trunk and bumping against it in a pulpy red mass as his body falls.  
  
None of them spot the wiry old man in the higher branches; they only spot the movement of the RPG launcher as he hefts it to his shoulder. Rasool’s bullet hits the man in the temple half a second after he pulls the trigger on the launcher. Half a second, and far, far too late.  
  
It's Aramis’ closeness to the door that allows him to take as little damage as he does. The RPG hits the side of the Assembly building at almost 300 meters per second, and the wall explodes outwards in a hail of glass and bricks and rebar, most of it arching over his head. Because Aramis is turned toward them, he’s watching as most of his team goes down.  
  
He sees Karpov take a chunk of masonry the size of a football to his face. He’s watching when a huge shard of glass rakes across Pereira’s neck and Pereira falls to his knees, powerless to stop the spray. Aramis sees Kaminski go down under a section of the collapsing wall and watches Rogers try to pull him out even as the rebels rounding the corner fire their weapons into Rogers’ body. He misses seeing Wade get pinned to the ground by a shaft of rebar through his thigh, and he misses seeing what the rebels do to him when they find him like that. He is eternally grateful.  
  
Aramis feels Rasool pulling him up, ducking under his arm and taking Aramis’ weight as Aramis tugs the door open, and Rasool runs them both inside. They lock the heavy steel door behind them and pray it’s enough to buy them some time. He knows he’s been hit in the head, he can feel the skin split across his forehead as he’s wiping blood out of his right eye, but he’s not sure how he misses what’s happened to Rasool.  
  
They make it to an interior room, pulled through the door by armed men. Rasool deposits Aramis in a chair and then collapses to the ground, surrounded by the concerned, shouting faces of the President’s personal guard. Through the crowd, Aramis can see the bone of Rasool’s upper arm protruding from his fatigue jacket and the expanding puddle of blood underneath him. Aramis grabs for a nearby trashcan, vomits into it and blacks out.  
  
He comes to a few minutes later, just in time to hear helicopters above the building and the echo of gunfire off the outside walls. Before long, there is the hiss and boom of grenades being launched somewhere other than the building and the terrible thunder of approaching tanks. By ten a.m. it’s all over. By eleven, the government has declared an ‘overwhelming victory.’  
  
Aramis, watching Rasool being loaded into an ambulance, knows that it was overwhelming; he wonders what they think they’ve been victorious over. He’s in a daze as someone tries to hand him a dirty handkerchief to put to his head; he brushes it away and keeps walking. Standing under a tree, he pulls out his radio and calls the base for transport.  
  
The driver who shows up in the truck is a spotty-faced kid from Ukraine, who asks Aramis where the rest of his team is. Rasool, he tells them, is at the hospital. The kid asks where the others are, and when Aramis doesn’t say another word the kid looks over his shoulder to see the wreckage behind him. He doesn’t look at Aramis as he speaks into his radio, letting the base know they’ll need help out here; they’ll need cleanup.  
  
While they wait the kid pulls out his first-aid kit and swipes Aramis’ forehead clean with an alcohol wipe. For a second, the burn of it is the only thing Aramis can feel on his entire body; when the sting fades he’s numb again. The kid puts two butterfly bandages over the cut, directs the newly arrived Legionnaires to the bodies of Aramis’ team, and drives them out of what Aramis will now always think of as “that fucking hellhole.”  
  
The kid drives him straight to the barracks, escorts him to his room and tells him that the Colonel wants to talk to him tomorrow, not to do anything but rest until then. Aramis thinks that he needs to call his parents, needs to talk to Porthos. God, he needs to talk to Porthos. He thumbs on his mobile, but the signal is out; the government is known for doing that when they need to control the news in and out. Aramis swears and throws his mobile onto the empty bunk beside him. Wade’s bunk.  
  
He turns to the Ukrainian kid, still standing in the doorway waiting for… who knows what he’s waiting for. Aramis curls onto his side on the bunk, holding his pillow to his chest. His voice is hollow; he doesn’t even look at the kid when he says, “Get. Out.”  Between the early morning, the adrenaline rush— and crash— and the blood loss Aramis is asleep before the kid turns the light out.  
  
His body clock wakes him just after dawn; he flicks his mobile on to find the signal still isn’t back. He showers on autopilot, makes coffee and finds his commanding officer is also up and working. Aramis gives him his after-action report; as numb as he is there’s not even a stumble as he explains what happened to the other five men. Col. Houdet blessedly does not steeple his fingers together and press them to his mouth; Aramis might have to kill him if he did that. Instead, he takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose. When he sighs, he sounds almost as tired as Aramis does.  
  
“Sit down, Aramis.”  There’s’ a short pause before Aramis pulls out the chair on his side of the desk and sits. He’s never been called by his first name by one of his commanding officers. He’s not sure if this bodes well or ill. He doesn’t really care.  
  
The maps and papers on Houdet’s desk crinkle under his elbows as he drops his head into his hands. “I know that every one of us knows what we are signing up for when we join the Legion, when we join this unit. It is not a group for paperwork or getting a suntan. Even still, this kind of… this is terrible.”  
  
He pauses, and Aramis just sits and listens. Houdet has been in the field, has lost people before, but Aramis doubts he can bring to mind the sound of screaming quite as fast as Aramis can.  
  
Houdet scrubs his hand over his face and continues. “The reports we had, the pictures and progress we saw, we knew they would be coming in and we knew we could beat them. We couldn’t have anticipated what happened to your team.”  
  
Aramis’ voice is flat, almost metallic in its dullness. “You had reports, Sir?”  
  
“We did. We were able to use the new terrain imaging programs to see the direction and force size. Amal and Renard in the air and ground groups were able to count the vehicles and judge their speed. The surveillance helicopter fired a warning shot, but they kept approaching. We did what we could, alerted the government troops. When they asked, we said we would send in assistance. You know as well as I do that there was no more qualified or better equipped team on this base to handle that mission than yours.”  
  
They had reports. They knew what was coming, from where; they fired shots that did nothing. They just let all that death march right into the city and blow Wade’s face off. Houdet takes out a piece of paper and scribbles a name on it, sliding it across the desk to Aramis. “This is the hospital where Rasool is being treated. Write up your report and then go see him. Take the day, the weekend, we’ll talk again on Monday.”  
  
Aramis takes the paper, stands and salutes. He’s back on autopilot now, just waiting until he can see Rasool. Somehow Aramis knows that until he’s with Rasool he’ll just keep seeing the images in his head, cycling through like some hellish newsreel. There’s no way to explain how much he needs to be in the presence of someone who was there, who saw the things he saw and survived. Together, perhaps they can keep surviving.  
  
He types up and files his report; strange to see so much blood and death take so little ink to tell. The Ukrainian kid is on duty at the motor pool and checks out a truck to Aramis. He doesn’t mean to drive past the Assembly building, he’d avoid it forever if he could, but so many roads between him and the hospital are closed while residents clean up broken glass and bits of their homes. There really isn’t any other route open to him.  
  
The square in front of the building is crowded, ringed with people who are watching something in the center. Listening to something. Aramis slows the truck to a stop on the side of the road and hears the voice of the president coming through a bullhorn. He’s talking about how the rebels entered their city, and tried to defeat his people. He’s talking about the might of his people and their unwillingness to be defeated, and Aramis jerks the door open, running to the nearest tree and vomiting against the trunk.  
  
Standing, Aramis can see into the center of the square, can see what everyone is staring at. Sitting on the ground, baking in the late-morning sun, are a few hundred captured rebel troops. Aramis can see their faces, the defeat and the knowledge that they won’t live far past their presence at this “celebration.”  Some of them are children, the rest barely more than teenagers.  
  
On the ground, well out of their reach, is a terrifying assortment of confiscated weapons. Aramis looks over the RPG launchers and wonders if one of those weapons is the one that took out Pereira and Kaminski and the rest of his friends and brothers. He swallows the bile crowding at the back of his throat, and he’s able to keep it together until he sees the steps of the Assembly building behind President Déby.  
  
There are at least seven bodies tumbled down the steps and another half dozen at the foot of them. There’s blood running down to pool at the base of the stairs, and Aramis knows if he were close enough he could hear the flies. He dry heaves against the side of the tree for another minute and makes it back to the truck before the tears start, barely. Aramis sits there, the heat and the noise and the last two days just rolling over him, and sobs against the steering wheel.  
  
He thinks of all the fucking running at Aubagne and the days without sleep at Castlenaudary, the marches across Corsica and the endless training and wonders if this could possibly have been what it was all for. All that training just to enable some petty shithead with a delusional grip on power to stand in the middle of the children he’s defeated and crow about it.  _Fuck that_ , he thinks. He hasn’t spent this long away from his family, from his Porthos, just to make it possible for this jackass to make money off the misery of his people.  
  
The anger is what finally stops the crying, and though he’s not even seeing clearly yet, he throws the truck into drive and tears down the road. He needs to see Rasool.  
  
In the hospital, no one stops him. Not a single person asks him who he’s here to see or what his business is. There are people lining all the hallways, most with scrapes and bruises or cradling sprained, possibly broken limbs. Aramis finally corners a confused young woman and gets Rasool’s room number. He’s in a recovery ward with six other men; the monitors next to him seem to say everything is fine, but Rasool is not awake. Aramis wonders if he missed something yesterday.  
  
The man two beds over says, in heavily accented English, “Drugs.”   At Aramis’ questioning look he expands on that, “They gave him drugs. For the pain. They make him sleep.”   Relieved that it’s not a concussion, or worse, Aramis thanks the stranger and settles himself on the edge of Rasool’s bed. He picks up his teammate’s limp, dry hand in his own and feels it warm against his fingers.  
  
He wants to speak, but it takes long minutes before he knows what he wants to say. When Aramis does speak it’s in Spanish; whatever Rasool’s unconscious mind might assimilate, Aramis doesn’t want what he’s about to say to be any part of it.  
  
“That room in the barracks is too fucking quiet without Pereira. I don’t even know where he is right now. I don’t know where any of them are. What’s left of them. I only know where you are.”   He runs his thumb over a tiny scar on the back of Rasool’s hand.  
  
“When my escort out saw you being taken away, saw the god-awful mess, he… he called for help. He asked for clean up. Three fucking years as a team. All that training, all that time together, fucking _Kosovo_. I took fucking Rogers to church with me and listened to Wade talk about his goddamn fishing boat and that kid just calls the base and says ‘We’re gonna need clean up’ like my whole team is just a mess at the market.”  
  
Aramis takes a deep breath, and when he speaks again he’s surprised to find that he’s saying the words he’s been afraid of saying since Rasool dragged him through that door. “What are we going to do now?"  
  
The buzzing against his leg confuses Aramis for a second and then he remembers he left his mobile on after the last time he checked for signal. It must be back now because his phone is ringing and, oh thank god, it’s Porthos. He starts the conversation just like Porthos had, without even waiting for a greeting.  
  
“I’m fine. They take down the cell signal when stuff like this happens. I’m… I’m fine.”  
  
“I was so worried. I kept hoping, because I hadn’t heard anything. I thought if you’d… that they’d call your parents, and your mum would call me at least.”  
  
Hearing Porthos is enough to drive Aramis nearly to tears again. It’s just the most perfect sound. His voice is like the ocean, coming over Aramis in waves and wiping away the edges of all the things that had been carved into him the day before.  
  
“They’d have called you, too. I love you.”  
  
“I love you, my brother. Do you want to talk?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Do you want to just sit here?”  
  
“Not right now?  One of my team is being treated. I’m with him at the hospital.”  
  
“Just one of your team?”  
  
“Not right now, Porthos, please.”  
  
Porthos’ muttered, “Fuck,” is enough to let Aramis know he understands completely. “No, of course not right now. When you can, though. Just so I can hear you?”  
  
“Yes. Yeah. I need that. Porthos… I love you.”  
  
Another time Porthos might have said, “I know,” or “You just said that,” or any number of other smart-mouthed comments. But he’s seen the news, Aramis knows he must have. So he just says, “I love you,” as firmly and sincerely as he can. From Porthos, it’s like a balm.  
  
Porthos promises to call his parents, and Aramis thanks him and flips off the phone. He sits with Rasool for a few minutes longer, until his leg starts to go numb. He needs to get back to the base. He needs to find out what’s next. He needs to sleep for a year. He needs to change the bandages on his forehead.  
  
Aramis stands and squeezes Rasool’s hand in his. He knows Rasool can’t hear him but that hardly matters. Aramis says, “I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t go anywhere,” because it’s as close as he can get to, “Don’t you leave me, too.”  
  
Out in the hallway, Aramis is dodging people, just trying to find his way to the exit, when he spots a familiar dark head of wild hair and freezes. She stops and looks at him.  
  
“Aramis!”  Fatima grabs him by the arm, “Why are you here?”  She tugs him into a supply closet, barely big enough for them both to stand facing each other, but enough for her to see the bandages. “What are you doing here in the middle of this clusterfuck and, oh my god your head!  What happened to your head?”  
  
She’s a buzz of energy and questions, and Aramis thinks she’s the first thing that’s seemed alive to him in more than twenty-four hours.  
  
Pulling a box out from under a shelf, she pushes him until he’s sitting on it. She decides to go with the simple questions first. “Who were you here to see?”  
  
Aramis looks up at her, finding his voice at last. “Rasool. He was… his arm was hurt yesterday. He’s unconscious right now, but I needed to see him.”  
  
Fatima pulls a handful of alcohol wipes from her pocket and swipes at his forehead, tugging the butterfly bandages off and inspecting the damage. “And the rest of the team?”  Her fingers are soft and careful at the edges of the cut, cleaning off the last of the old blood and testing the scab to make sure it won’t break back open.  
  
He clutches at her wrist, pressing his temple to the back of her hand, just needing to feel her skin against his. He doesn’t answer her.  
  
“Oh, god. Aramis.”  Her voice has all the heartbreak he won’t let himself feel.  
  
Aramis presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist, tugging her closer until he can rest his head against her belly, feeling the rough fabric of her scrubs against his skin. Fatima’s nails are a sharp counterpoint to her soft fingers as she rakes them through his hair. One of her arms is draped over his shoulders, down his back, holding him to her. It’s this solid, kind, innocent touch that brings hot tears to his eyes, and he can feel them spilling over and running down his face. He isn’t making a sound, but he knows she must feel the wetness against her. Her fingers just keep up their steady, soft scratch against his head.  
  
He wraps his arms around her hips, and into the close, warm space between their bodies he lets out a breath he’s been holding for a day.  
  
Rubbing his head against her, he can’t help but notice when her shirt bunches up enough for a sliver of skin to show just above the drawstring of her pants. He kisses it, not even meaning anything, just letting the warmth of her skin seep into him through his lips. Dragging in a breath through his nose Aramis can’t help but notice how her skin smells. There’s antiseptic and alcohol, but under that is the cassia scent of her soap; he hums against her belly in appreciation. He can feel his cock twitch against his thigh. It’s the worst time, he knows, but god at least it’s something to feel.  
  
Fatima tugs at his hair. “Aramis.”  She’s chiding him; he knows. If he looks at her eyes, he’ll see an expression that tells him he’s just hiding from reality that this won’t solve anything. He doesn’t look at her eyes. Staring up at her, he fixates on her lips.  
  
It’s one continuous motion, the rise to his feet, the clash of his mouth against hers, the way he barrels them both into the back wall of the supply closet, rocking his sudden erection into her thigh. She’s returning his kisses, but he still backs off when he feels her palms press against his chest as she’s saying,  “Aramis. Aramis!”  
  
He stands in the middle of that cramped space, breath heaving, and he guesses what shows most in his expression is how lost he feels. Fatima looks over his entire face, strokes his cheekbone with her thumbs, then leans in to kiss him again. She tugs at his belt, undoing the buttons on his fly, and when his fatigues drop to the floor in a clank of metal and equipment she pushes him backwards until he’s back sitting on that box again.  
  
Pulling until she releases the bow holding the drawstring of her scrub bottoms tight, she shimmies her hips until the pants pool around her ankles and then toes off her shoes and steps out of them. She’s bare beneath her scrubs, and with the trousers on the floor her pussy is in his eye line. He reaches out to grab at her hips, and pull her in close to his mouth. Before he can do more than pull her slightly off balance, she swats at his hands.  
  
“No. Not that, not now. Not this time.”  Instead, she drops to her haunches in a crouch and fumbles in one of the big cargo pockets on his fatigues for his survival kit. Aramis remembers the weekend when he told her his favorite condom-based survival tactics, and then demonstrated them for her. He remembers explaining that you have to put the condom in a sock if you want to use it as a makeshift canteen, because otherwise it just gets too big to carry, and how she’d laughed so hard she’d fallen off the bed at the image.  
  
Aramis remembers that and Fatima remembers that it means there’s a condom in his survival kit. She fishes it out and hands it to him. He pulls his cock out through the fly of his boxers and rolls it on while he watches her pull her top off and drop it onto the shelf behind her.  
  
She straddles his thighs, pressing his cock between their bodies, and pushes his t-shirt up until she can lean into him, pressing her bare chest against his. God, she’s so fucking warm. Even in a room so small that it's heating up rapidly with just their presence and their breath, she’s still so warm. She’s so soft, and she’s right here. She’s making noise and responding, and he’s fucking missed her. He’s missed her and her mouth and her heart and how she smiles. She’s here now; her breasts pillowed against his chest, nipples pressing into him. She’s here and god he can feel how hot her cunt is as she rocks against him.  
  
Before long Fatima rises up, liberally licks three of her fingers and slides them into herself. She’s stroking them into her when she spots something on the shelf behind him. As she’s reaching up and over him her breast moves in front of his face. Aramis flicks his tongue out, licking at her nipple and sucking it into his mouth. She hisses and swats at his head. “I’m trying to get… this… got it!”  
  
Triumphant, she waggles a tube of petroleum jelly in front of his face. It’s not perfect, but it’s better than spit and faster than the time he normally likes to devote to warming her up. She kisses him as she slicks the jelly on to him and then dropping the tube to the floor beside them she takes his cock in her hand and presses it to her pussy.  
  
She stops there, she always does; she likes nothing better than that first aching press of him into her. He can feel her hands come up to cup his face as she leans in to kiss him. It’s hot in the tiny room; he can taste the sweat collecting in the cupid’s bow of her lips. Her cunt is sinking down onto him one sweet bit at a time, and she’s gasping into his mouth. It’s so unlike them, this tenderness; he finds himself disarmed by it.  
  
When, finally, she’s flush against him, the curls at her sex pressing into his own, she pulls back to look into his eyes. She rocks her hips forward once, just to watch him moan and drop his head back against the shelf behind him. Again, she fucks herself on to him and watches him fall into the sensation. After that, she simply stops. She doesn’t move again, doesn’t even clench herself around him, she just stares at him. When he stares back, gives a frustrated whine and jerks his hips, she smiles at him and cocks one eyebrow.  
  
The sound he makes is like nothing so much as a startled cough. She’s fucking with him. Aramis leans in, kissing her and pulling her legs up around his waist. He draws on every obstacle course, every hike with a loaded pack, every run up that fucking hill in Castelnaudary and stands up, pushing her again into the wall. She drops one leg onto the shelves to her left to brace herself, and he takes advantage of his new leverage to drive his cock up and into her, fucking a high, needy sound out of her throat.  
  
Aramis buries his face in her neck, sucking and licking at her skin, and just… just fucks her. It’s not refined; he’s not showing off technique, he’s just fucking her. Sweat is dripping down the center of his back, over his ass, and her breath is hot and damp against the side of his face. Her hands are scrabbling at his shoulders, down his back; she’s pulling him further towards her. Aramis can feel his orgasm uncoiling at the back of his neck and bites down on it. He unlocks one knee and angles his hips so that he can feel the pad of flesh at the front of her pelvis pressing against him.  
  
Fatima’s fingers curl, digging into his shoulders and she hisses out a “Yes!” straight into his ear. With this new angle, he can feel her tipping over the edge with him. In a deadly serious tone she says, “Don’t stop. Don’t.”  He doesn’t.  
  
Aramis has his left palm flat against the wall to brace himself, and he can feel it getting slick with sweat. Just as he thinks that if they don’t finish soon they’re going to slip into an undignified heap on the floor, he feels her getting tighter around him. She’s biting down viciously on her lower lip to keep her noises to a minimum and he’s groaning into her neck, and they’re both coming. Aramis is seeing stars behind his eyelids still as he feels himself growing softer.  
  
They clean up in a daze, putting their clothes back on, finding all the bits and pieces they came in with. He knows it wasn’t the best he’s been able to give her; he knows that’s not why she was doing it. Aramis knows it wasn’t a pity fuck, but it was dangerously close to a consolation fuck. She knew, somehow that what he needed was to hold something joyful, alive and warm, in his hands for a few minutes, to feel something outside of numb loss. She knew, and she gave it to him, and she took her pleasure at the same time so that they might both look back on it and know it for an act of love and compassion, not of resentment and taking.  
  
Fatima doesn’t even check the hallway before walking out the door of the supply room, tugging Aramis along behind her. Her hair is a mass of tangled curls at the back of her head where it was sliding against the wall, and she combs through it with her fingers while she leads him through the hallways to the front door. She says she’s been working there since the afternoon before, treating mostly minor wounds, but a few more serious cases that needed amputations. There’s a haunted look in her eyes when she says this; he recognizes it and squeezes her hand.  
  
“I’ll be here for a few more hours at least. If I call you when I am leaving and come pick you up at the base, can I convince you to spend the night with me tonight?”   At his wary look she says, “To sleep. Just to sleep. I’ve been working straight through, and I’m betting that while you probably slept, it wasn’t very restful. I miss you.”  
  
Aramis drops his forehead against hers and nods. He kisses her and then kisses the knuckles of the hand she still has wrapped around his. He can see her waving through the glass doors as he drives away.  
  
He’s barely through the door of her flat that night before she pulls him into her arms, and just holds on to him. Aramis isn’t sure which one of them this was originally intended to comfort, he only knows that the way her arms feel around him is the best thing he could imagine right now. She breathes against his neck, and he revels in the feeling of it, warm and alive on his skin.  
  
Fatima pulls him into her shower and washes him from head to toe. He lets his fingers sink into her hair as he washes it, and watches her face relax. She so beautiful like this, open and trusting, and he wonders what he has ever done to deserve that trust.  
  
He thinks about the things he did yesterday, the guns, and his fingers tighten against her scalp. Her hand strokes over his arm until he relaxes. She leans in to kiss his chest as she moves him out from under the water and rinses her hair. They finish their dance in and out of the spray, and when they’re both clean to her satisfaction, she turns the water off and dries him off with the biggest towel she can find.  
  
Aramis thinks he ought to feel like a child when she does this. He ought to be protesting that he’s capable of drying himself off after a shower, but her hands feel so good and it’s nice, for a minute, not to have to think about anything but standing still and letting her do this.  
  
When she’s finished, he returns the favor, taking extra time to squeeze the ends of her hair so they’re no longer dripping down her back. From the way she sways slightly as he presses the towel against her arms, against her back, it’s clear he’s not the only one who needed to shut down for a minute or two.  
  
He doesn’t even realize he’s shivering until he stops. Fatima takes his face in her hands.  
  
“I have to tell you something; I thought about waiting, but let’s just get it done and get this day over with, yes?  My new assignment came in this morning; my rotation is up the second week in May. But Aramis- Aramis, look at me.”  
  
He swings his eyes back to her face. Her job is a temporary position; he knew that, three months usually, four at the most. His own tour here will end not so long after that, but the idea of making that drive without her smile next to him is physically painful.  
  
“Aramis, if you think that country borders or distances are enough to take me from your life, you are very much mistaken. I’m not finished knowing you yet.”   She kisses his forehead, and he finds the ghost of a smile creeping over his face.  
  
Once they’re in bed, one of her legs draped over his and her head on his right shoulder, he remembers he promised to call Porthos. He kisses the top of her head and says, “I need to make a call.”  
  
He didn’t mean it as a request, but she reaches over the edge of the bed and pulls his mobile from the cargo pocket of his fatigues. She sits back up, sheet held up over her breasts, and hands it to him. For a moment he’s knocked breathless by how beautiful she is just like this, fresh from the shower and working on two hours of sleep.  
  
She snuggles back into him as he thumbs on the power and dials Porthos’ number. When he hears the ringing start, he presses the Speaker button and puts the phone on the dip of the shoulder she’s not using as a pillow.  
  
“Hey, I was just thinking about you. Are you back at the base?  Are you safe?”  As it always does, Porthos’ voice settles over him like a blanket and Aramis feels his mood lifting.  
  
“No, not back at the base, but I am safe."  
  
“Are you at Fatima’s place?  Aramis!  You didn’t need to call me back while you were in the middle of something. Call me back when it’s a good time to talk.”  
  
“Porthos, this is a good time to talk,” Aramis says.  
  
Fatima looks up at him; her chin propped on her hand where it’s resting against his skin. “Do you want me to step away?” she whispers.  
  
“No,” Aramis says. “Stay.”  She smiles and curls back into his side.  
  
Porthos’ laugh is a low rumble through the phone. “This is the best of both worlds for you, isn’t it?”  
  
Aramis is trying to formulate a response when Fatima says, “I have always suspected he was the greedy type.”  
  
“You have no idea,” Porthos says, and Aramis can almost  _hear_  the smile on his face.  
  
“Porthos, stop flirting with my girlfriend, I'm the one who called you.”  
  
He can hear Porthos, serious now, asking, “Do you want to talk about it?  Yesterday?”  
  
“Not yet,” Aramis says. “If that’s okay?  I’m still…”  
  
“Figuring it out. I know how that is. I’m here whenever, if ever, you need. Are you staying there this weekend?”  
  
Aramis flicks his eyes to Fatima; she nods. “Yes,” Aramis says. “Houdet isn’t expecting me back before Monday’s roll call.”  
  
“Good. I like the idea of you having someone with you for the next couple of days.”  
  
Fatima’s voice is soft but so sincere, “I promise you, Porthos, I’ll take good care of him.”  
  
For a second Aramis thinks she’s taking the piss, but then he realizes that she knows exactly what Porthos needs to hear, and she's absolutely serious. She’s saying all the things she’d want to hear from someone taking care of Pawel if she couldn’t.  
  
She promises to make sure Aramis eats and Porthos thanks her, saying that it’s something he’s bad about when he’s under stress. He tells Fatima that when Aramis’ father had gone in to have a small lump under his arm biopsied when they were twenty, Aramis had only remembered to eat once during the three days it took for the results to come back. Aramis has no recollection of those days at all beyond the memory of creeping dread and the wash of relief when the biopsy had been negative.  
  
He’d been in good hands then, and he’s in good hands now. When Fatima asks Porthos, "How are things where you are?” Aramis considers protesting. Then he realizes that if Porthos knows he’s safe, that he’ll be cared for all weekend, then really, Aramis' part in this call is over. He loves both of their voices, and it would be nice just to listen. He really is so tired.  
  
With the hot wind of the night coming through the window, and Fatima’s fingernail drawing circles on his bicep, Aramis falls asleep to the sound of his two loves speaking to each other across his heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is no nice way to put this, so I'm just gonna say it. This chapter has some violence and honest descriptions of injuries. I don't find it gratuitous; I find it suited to the piece, the situation, and the tone, but let's face it, I'm a little biased. They're all in the first half. Know your limits, if this is beyond them let me know and I'll send you a version with the bad bits trimmed. 
> 
> As with all other "real world" events in this story, [the events in N'djamena](http://www.nytimes.com/2006/04/15/world/africa/15chad.html?_r=2&hp&ex=1145073600&en=59a6b0bdba8afcb1&ei=5094&partner=homepage&oref=slogin&) are as accurate as I can make them to history. Between the maps of Abéché, the maps of the area around the National Assembly building, and the maps of Chad in general, I'm seeing satellite views of West Africa in my sleep. How about next chapter we go somewhere nice and calm and just sit on the beach for a while?
> 
> Eternal gratitude to my husband (seriously) who lectured me on the effective range of RPGs and when I was describing the fight scene suggested just aiming the RPG at the building. It's his fault, y'all.


	11. Twenty-nine - Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s almost three days before he can get back to Porthos. In the end, he doesn’t even call first. He sends a text because he can’t make his mouth say the words.
> 
>  
> 
> _Only Rasool and I made it. He’s in the hospital getting his arm put back together. I don’t know what to do._
> 
>  
> 
> Porthos’ response is perfect. _None of us ever do, but you and I've got each other, we can not know together._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Cee is best.
> 
> Look, I'm not gonna lie. I was hoping to get somewhere happy and sunny with this chapter but something else reminded me it needed to happen. I could have made this a much longer chapter and gotten there eventually, but I'd rather put this out there and be done with it. Like pulling off a bandage. Then I can get on to the happy and the sunny and the sexy.
> 
> This is gonna hurt, y'all. And I'm sorry about that, I really am. Just... trust me. Stick with me. It'll get better fast. Pinky-swear.

It’s almost three days before he can get back to Porthos. In the end, he doesn’t even call first. He sends a text because he can’t make his mouth say the words.

_Only Rasool and I made it. He’s in the hospital getting his arm put back together. I don’t know what to do._

Porthos’ response is perfect. _None of us ever do, but you and I've got each other, we can not know together._

 

Tuesday night he finally finds time for a call. 

“I don’t even know where you are right now.” 

Porthos laughs. “I sometimes don’t even know myself. I think today I’m in Baghdad. We’re leaving tomorrow; no one will tell us where, so for now it’s just a matter of enjoying the electricity and running water while they last. Where are you?” 

Aramis sighs. “I’m in the barracks on the base. It’s so fucking quiet in here right now. They say they’re sending more troops. More guys from the deuxieme REP. But for right now it’s just so… empty. It’s just this room. The rest of the place is packed, but this room fucking echoes.”  His voice drops to nearly a whisper. “I hate that it echoes.” 

There’s a quiet noise from the other end; Porthos is agreeing and being sympathetic but not barging into Aramis’ rambling. He’s perfect. 

“I don’t know how to close my eyes without seeing it, Porthos. I don’t know how to close my eyes and not see all the blood and bone and everything else. I don’t know how to not fill the quiet with the sound of them all hitting the ground. Help me.” 

“I wish to fuck I could, brother. I do. I know that the first time I saw someone fall in front of me, I saw it behind my eyes for weeks. After that, sometimes I would close my eyes and see something else. Then more and more often. Not saying the thing that’ll replace all that shit will necessarily be good, but at least there will be something different. Fuck, I’m not helping at all. I love you.”

Aramis rubs his hand over his forehead and smiles. “You help just by talking. You help just by being here. You help just by giving me something to hear other than echoes and silence.”

Porthos’ voice is quiet and smooth. “I’ve got an idea. Remember the waterfall?  In our park?” 

“Yes, of course I do.” 

“Remember how tall it was, and how it would make this great crashing noise at the bottom?  Remember how sometimes the sun hits it and everything around it just goes hazy?”

“Yeah.”

“Are your eyes closed?” 

They are, Aramis is surprised to note. His eyes are closed and for the first time in almost a week what’s behind them isn’t blood and death and twisted metal. It only lasts for a second, this tiny pocket of light and joy and sun on a waterfall, but it’s enough to give him hope that the horrible images won’t last forever. 

“Porthos, have I told you recently how much I love you?” 

“Not recently, no.”

“You are the best thing in my life.”

Porthos laughs. “Now I know that’s not true, I’ve had your mother’s cooking.” 

“Fair enough. How can I ever thank you enough?” 

The tone changes, then. Porthos is suddenly serious. “I’m going to need you soon enough. You’re going to have to listen to me gripe about finding a place to live.” 

Aramis can’t quite keep the surprise from his tone. “Aren’t you… I don’t understand.”

“My contract is up at the end of the year. I’m not renewing. ‘M tired, Aramis. Tired of being tired and tired of feeling like I’m not making any difference. I realized-- while I was talking to your girl the other night, in fact-- that if I get out now I could get a job back in Paris and make a difference there. I could maybe make a real difference to kids just like me. Like I was.”

Aramis tries to keep the relief out of his voice. The idea of waking up and not having to worry about Porthos driving over an IED is incredible. “I'm here for anything you need. Anything. You know that.”

“I do, but sometimes it’s still nice to hear it. Hey Aramis?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” 

“I love you.”

“I have to go, call me anytime?”

“I will. And Fatima is setting me up with an email account so that I can gripe at you without you even having to be there.”

“The Army gave me one, let me know when you’re set up, and I’ll send it to you. Talk soon?”

“Can’t wait.”

Aramis holds the phone in both hands, resting his head against the hard plastic of the screen. He thinks about their life together in Paris so many years, so many scars ago. Porthos will have that again; he’ll have a chance to settle and make a life he can grow old in. Aramis is as happy as he can be, given that he won’t be there alongside Porthos. 

He switches the light off and curls up in his bunk. Hours later, when he finally drifts off, he dreams of bodies going over waterfalls and crashing on the rocks at the bottom.

 

He tries to pretend he’s not counting the trips with Fatima, but he’s sure she sees right through him. When she gets into the transport the next morning, she looks more tired than he’s ever seen her, and there is something else behind the dark circles under her eyes.

Aramis takes her hand and strokes the back with his thumb. He kisses the inside of her wrist. “Thank you for taking care of me last weekend. I know I wasn’t the best company, and I know I took more than I gave but… Thank you. 

Her smile is weak but genuine. “Everyone gets a turn, Aramis.”  She squeezes his hand. “Today needs to be my turn. I need you to hold my hand for as much of the drive as you can. I need to be touching you. And I need you to talk to me. Tell me stories that have nothing to do with this place or last week.” 

For nine hours and forty-three minutes Aramis tells her stories. He tells her the plots of his favorite books as a child, the stories his mother told him at bedtime and he tells her the stories of all the places along the Camino. She falls asleep at some point, but he keeps talking because it’s the closest he can come to saying, “I don’t know that I would have made it through last week without you.”

When she wakes up again, he’s in the middle of telling her about the grail at O’Cebrero, and she turns to him and smiles.

That night they don’t fuck or make love or even get undressed. Aramis curls her to him and sleeps with his nose buried in her hair and her breath against his chest. 

The next three trips are more like they are used to, but even so they’re noticeably subdued. When her final trip comes they don’t talk at all on the drive. He just twines her fingers in with his and doesn’t let go. 

They say their goodbyes in her flat the night before she leaves. The sex is loud and energetic, and Aramis is drenched in sweat by the time it’s over, so it takes him a second to realize that his neck is getting wetter. He does her the favor of not offering her platitudes or telling her not to cry. He just holds her and strokes his hand along her back and tells her he loves her, that he’s not finishing knowing her either. He tells her this world didn’t bring them to each other only to force them to let go forever. 

In the morning, her eyes are dry, and she’s smiling again. Aramis is unspeakably glad of it because he’s not sure he could have left her if she were still crying, it would have broken every paper-thin dam he currently has around his own emotions. Instead, he kisses her, feeling her smile against his mouth and promising she’ll have an email from him before she lands in New York.

He turns back when he’s halfway down the hall and sees her leaning against the doorjamb; she hasn’t taken her eyes off of him. He will never be sure how he keeps moving his feet away from her, only that a few minutes later he’s on his bike heading back to the base and wondering how he’ll handle another three months without her.

 

It turns out he handles them by putting every bit of him that isn’t a Legionnaire into a box that he only opens when he’s on the phone with Porthos or his parents. He stops reminding himself who he is while he’s in the shower; he stops turning the memories over at night. His performance reports for the period are exemplary. The irony doesn’t escape him.

The reinforcement troops arrive at the end of May and have finished their initial acclimation training by the time Fatima leaves. Aramis throws himself into making sure they know the reality of the place. He tells them the places to go, how to avoid trouble as best they can, and he tells them in minute graphic detail what happened to the last guys from this unit to not look close enough before going into a firefight. 

The trips to Abéché he turns over to the Ukrainian kid. Aramis can’t stand Fatima’s replacement. He’s a brawny, tanned pediatrician from Southern California, and if they’d met in any other circumstances, Aramis would have found him charming and warm. He’s not Fatima, so Aramis hates him. 

Just when Aramis is sure that if he has to endure another July day in N’djamena he’s going to melt into the asphalt, he gets his orders back to Corsica. There’s another group of fresh recruits coming into Calvi, and they want Aramis to work with them on sniping and urban combat. Aramis goes to see Rasool, who is barreling his way through physical therapy at a rate that is surely not actually doing him any good.

“I’m off for Calvi at the end of the month. I’ll be back just in time for that fucking march, so be glad they’re keeping you an extra few weeks.”

Rasool laughs and winces as he jostles his arm. They talk for a while about nothing in particular, about who they think they’ll get to round out their team again, about the nurses and the therapy. Aramis visits almost every day, so this conversation is a rehash of one they’ve had time and again, but they know where they are right now, in a place like this routine is comforting. 

They’re still having the same conversation when Aramis comes to say goodbye. They talk about the doctors and where the hotbeds of unrest are, which ones they might end up in. They shake with their left hands, in deference to Rasool's still-healing right arm, and there’s a quick, fierce hug. “I’ll see you in Calvi,” Aramis says. “Be safe.”

 

Even with the summer heat, even with the cross-island march, Calvi feels like a vacation. He unpacks his bags; he unpacks that box of himself he’d kept hidden away for the last few months in Chad. His pictures of Porthos are hung up in his bunk again next to pictures of his parents and one of himself with Fatima. In the shower, his first night back in Corsica Aramis scrubs his hand over his hair and says his name to himself, he thinks of Porthos and that waterfall and something in his heart unlocks. 

For the first few weeks Aramis trains new recruits, helps some with their French and others with their aim, and tries to be of use. He calls Porthos once a week and emails Fatima to bitch about the food and how much he misses her cooking. His parents send new socks, minutes for his mobile, and their love.

The week he expects Rasool back, Aramis gets called into his CO’s office where Roget informs him that when Rasool returns he’ll be assigned to another team. Aramis is stunned silent. After everything else, after all of the death and blood and heat, after Fatima’s leaving and spending three months alone in that godforsaken base, Aramis finally felt like he was getting his feet under him again. This news is a slap across his face. 

When he finally recovers his words, all Aramis can say is, “But he’s on my team.” 

“Aramis, I can’t have you two on a team together and try to slot other people in. It needs to feel like a _team_ , not like you and Rasool and five guys who will never be the men you both miss.” 

Later Aramis will say he understands, that it makes perfect sense, and that unit cohesion is vital. Right now, though, he is unmoored. He is as alone in this unit as he has been in three years. His commanding officer clears his throat. “You’ll be assigned to another team as well; I’d like to give you the chance to pick them. For the next few months, I want you doing jump training and tactics training with the new crop.”

Aramis nods, dumbly. When Roget says, “You can go,” Aramis stands and walks out and then just sags against the wall outside the door. He tries to remind himself that a fresh start is a good thing. That he can train a new team, and maybe give them the skills to help them avoid rebar to the leg or a rebel gun in their faces. He needs to talk to Porthos.

He fires off a quick text and heads back to his room. The other bunks are empty, so he’s alone when Porthos calls. Aramis tells him about Rasool, about a new team.

“Fuck. Brother, I am so sorry. And yeah it makes sense but that doesn’t make it any less shit."

“I don’t know if I can start this all over again.”

“Listen, of course you can. Aramis, this is what you do. You adapt; you change, and you are just… you thrive. When everyone else left Paris, you went and made a new life for yourself. When the world changed, you became a soldier. You got sent into hell, and you managed to find love. Aramis, you specialize in doing this.”

Aramis takes a few deep breaths and just lets the sound of Porthos’ voice roll over him.

“And they’re not assigning you a new team right away, are they?  So you’ve got some time to work with the new kids, get them trained up. Tell them what you know and don’t pull any punches." 

Aramis takes deep breaths and tries to remember what it was like to be new at this, to not know what to do. He would have killed to have someone with three years in telling him the unvarnished truth about things. He remembers the look of gratitude on that recruit’s face when Aramis told him how to pad his feet for long marches. Maybe this is what he’s meant to do next. 

“What would I do without you, Porthos?” 

“You’ll never have to find out.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you.”

And just like that, Aramis feels like a part of his life has slotted back into place, like he’s not quite so much at loose ends. Maybe Rasool can do something like this for his new team. Maybe they’ll both eventually be okay. The nightmares still come, but Aramis tries to remember waterfalls and the smell of Fatima’s soap and the feel of Porthos’ hand. He wakes up in the night and reaches over to stroke his finger down the picture above his bunk, right along the scar on Porthos’ eyebrow. 

In his head he thinks _Always, always, always_. And in his heart he knows that as long as he has his love for Porthos, that bright, hot spark inside him, he will never be truly lost, even to the nightmares.

 

That’s how it is, then. Through most of the fall and all of the winter, through the beginnings of spring and the first cross-island march of the year, Aramis talks, he teaches, he tries to be as hard as they need but not cruel. No one is ever going to give them an easy day; they need to know that now. The only time he ever got an afternoon off was because five of his team were dead before noon.

Porthos calls at the beginning of November to say they’ve set his discharge date for the end of the month. He’s excited and nervous, and Aramis lets him talk for almost an hour about his plans. He’s crashing on a friend’s couch for a few days until he finds a place. There’s enough money squirreled away that he won’t have immediate pressure to find a job. After a while Aramis isn’t really even paying attention to the details, he’s just laying on his bunk smiling and listening to the sound of Porthos’ voice.

When they talk in mid-December Porthos tells him about the flat he’s found. It’s not huge, but it suits him. He’s excited to get back to cooking for himself. When they talk in mid-March Porthos tells him about his new job. He’s doing private security, and while initially it sounds dead dull, Porthos tells him about the unimagined stresses of just getting people safely in and out of restaurants and movie theaters. He likes the predictable hours, he likes the money, and he likes the travel.

Aramis tries hard not to be envious. It’s hard, though, to shake the visual of Porthos stretched out on a big bed, on clean sheets, in a room that no one else is sleeping in. The idea that Porthos gets to wake up at a predictable time for predictable reasons and have a better than average chance of not getting shot at during the course of his day. Porthos walks through their park sometimes, and Aramis is not with him, and that hurts like a knife.

In an effort to try and remember their time together, to make some more, Aramis plans some leave for the middle of May and Porthos leaps at the suggestion that Aramis might spend it in Paris. “Yes!  Come see my flat!  We’ll go to the park and watch the teenagers neck and wonder how we were ever that young.”  God, yes, Aramis thinks, perfect.

 

Before the end of March, Roget calls him into the office. Aramis is pretty sure he knows where this is going; his five-year contract is almost up, and it’s time to start dangling the re-enlistment bonuses. This isn’t an uncommon meeting for guys who are nearing the end of their contract. The pressure to re-enlist the good guys is immense; it’s cheaper to offer generous benefits to an already-trained Legionnaire than it is to train a new one. 

His CO’s office is boring and utilitarian; the only flash of personality is the picture of his wife that sits next to the medals on his bookshelf. Aramis wonders what kind of woman marries a man still so enmeshed in active duty life, how close that must be to marrying a man with a long-term mistress. Or perhaps his wife feels like the mistress herself. 

In the middle of Aramis’ daydreaming, his Roget clears his throat and Aramis jerks to attention. “Sit, d’Herblay.”  When Aramis is seated, his stark white kepi perched on his lap and his eyes straight forward, Roget speaks again. “I know that your contract is up at the end of May, I wonder if you’ve thought about whether you’ll be re-enlisting.”

“Sir, I hadn’t really. I’ve got some leave coming up, and I’d planned to consider it and have my decision ready when I come back.” 

Roget steeples his fingers together and puts them to his mouth and Aramis thinks this is the first time an officer has ever actually done this to him. It is exactly as insufferable as he always imagined it would be. 

“While you’re on holiday, while you’re considering it, I want to make sure you have the full picture. You know we value you and your expertise. Your combat experience is invaluable, and you’re the best damn shot I’ve ever seen. If you were to re-enlist, we’d like to move you up to a _caporal_  position.”

Aramis blinks. He’d been expecting to be offered a bonus, perhaps some extended leave or a pay increase. He had not been expecting to be offered a promotion to non-commissioned officer. His fingers toy at the edge of his kepi and he can feel the leather around the brim, soft under his fingers. “That’s extremely flattering, Sir.”

“It isn’t, actually. It’s perfectly reasonable and absolutely in line with your abilities and how we feel about them. It’s not a coincidence that you’ve been doing so much training; we wanted to see how you functioned in the position and how the recruits performed under your instructions. The results have been exemplary, and anything other than a permanent move to a command position would be a ridiculous waste of your skills.” 

“Thank you, Sir.” 

Roget’s smile is fleeting, but it’s there. “Don’t thank me, just think about it. Enjoy your holiday, and we’ll see you when you get back. You’re dismissed.” 

Aramis walks back to his room in a daze. He considers calling his parents. He considers calling Porthos. What he actually does is put his kepi and the rest of his dress uniform away and shrug on his fatigues and beret before grabbing his rifle and heading to the outdoor firing range. For a solid hour, he picks of targets at increasing distances just to challenge himself. When the range officer comes down the line to tell them he’s closing up shop Aramis is prone on the ground, his rifle on a bipod and his beret pushed back slightly on his head. The range officer waits while Aramis puts a .308 round through the forehead of a target 800 meters away and halfway up a tree. 

“Hey, Aramis, you about done?” 

Aramis is startled and looks at his watch. “Fuck, Bouchet why didn’t you tell me it was almost eight?”

Bouchet smirks and jerks a nod at Aramis’ Sako, “You looked like you were having a good time with your girlfriend there.”

The snort Aramis gives is disgusted, “You know how I feel about guys who talk about their rifles like they’re women.” 

“Of course I know, that’s why I did it. Speaking of women though, I’ve got a date with mine tonight, so I gotta get out of here.” 

Aramis zips his rifle back into the bag and hands Bouchet his unused ammo. “Have a good time, shower first. Your technique is probably bad enough without you finger-banging her with gunshot residue on your hands.” 

Bouchet flips rude hand gestures in at least three languages as Aramis walks back to the barracks. When Aramis finally calls Porthos that night he doesn’t mention the promotion offer; the trip is coming up and it’ll be the perfect time to see what might be possible for him after he gets out, to talk to Porthos about the details.

 

That thought is why, even with all the other changes in Porthos’ life, it’s the call at the beginning of April that makes Aramis have to sit down on the edge of his bed and wait for the room to stop spinning. Her name is Eve and Porthos met her on the job. She came on to him a couple of times while he was on duty and the second time she passed him her card. Who can say, Porthos says, what possessed him to call her, but they’ve been dating for the three weeks since the last time Aramis got a chance to call. 

“One second, Porthos,” Aramis says, and he puts his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and breathes for a second. He reminds himself that Porthos happy is one of the best sounds in the world. He reminds himself that Porthos has dated on and off for years, and it’s never meant a damn thing to his relationship with Aramis. Fatima’s comparison to gardens comes to his mind, and Aramis realizes that if there was ever a person with enough love and time to grow fields of flowers, it’s his love, his Porthos. 

He digs at the little green shoot of jealousy in his mind and finds it’s rooted in how much he had been looking forward to something in his life being exactly what he expected it to be. The last eight months have been the hardest of his life and his trip to see Porthos was going to be a break from all of that, a time to just hold and be held, to enjoy the familiar warmth of this amazing man. They’ll still have that, he reminds himself, and takes a deep breath. His brain settled, his heart happy for Porthos again, Aramis speaks into the phone, “Tell me. Tell me everything."

Porthos’ voice is practically vibrating when he talks about meeting her. “I was out watching the client during lunch, yeah? So we’re on our way back to the car, and my partner is holding the car door open, and I’m bringing up the rear and she catches me. There’s just this hand on my elbow and I turn around there’s this fucking knock-out but the client is about to walk outside so I have to look at her, I have to look at this gorgeous woman and say, ‘I can’t talk.’  Fuckin’ killed me, Aramis.”

Aramis nods and then when he realizes Porthos can’t see him he says, “That’s what the position calls for.”

“That’s what I tried to keep in mind later when I was kicking myself. Anyway, so three days later I’m in the same restaurant and there she is again; she’s standing by the door trying to catch my eye and I just, fuck the timing is just awful right?  Because the client is calling for me so I have to say to her _again_ that I can’t talk. But this time she just passes me this card and says I should call her when I _can_ talk I don’t even know what to do with a girl like that, Aramis.” 

There’s nothing for Aramis to do but laugh and say, “Oh Porthos, I’m sure you’ll think of something.” 

“Too right, friend. I wasn’t going to call; my partner kept razzing me because we get women like this all the time. They think we’re guarding someone important, and they can use us to get close, or they like a guy who looks dangerous or whatever. But there was something about her, you know?” 

No, Aramis doesn’t know, but from the tone in Porthos’ voice he can imagine. 

“Then I was just standing in my flat when I got home, just cleaning out my pockets, and there was her card. So I thought, well, she did approach me _twice_ ; maybe there are at least a couple of drinks with a beautiful woman in it for me if I call. We traded voicemails for a couple of days, but we finally made it to that drink and…”  Porthos trails off, and it’s up to Aramis to nudge him.

“And she thought you were so amazing she backed you into a bathroom stall and sucked you off?” 

Porthos’ laugh is louder than Aramis has heard it in years, the kind of loud you can only laugh when you’re the only one in your own flat; Aramis hasn't heard that laugh out of him for so long. “I’ll tell her you said that, she’ll like it. No, but she did tell me it wasn’t the date she was expecting. Most people think the guys who do my job are just gorillas in suits, I think she was surprised to find I could talk to her?  I don’t know. I just know that I kissed her goodbye, and we met for dinner on Saturday and she’s barely spent a night in her flat since then. I’m developing quite a collection of her suits in my closet."

Porthos laughs and says he’s not sure he’s ever dated a woman who was a bona-fide grown-up before, and he’s not sure how to do it. Eve has a real job; she works for a finance company doing contract translation and multi-lingual negotiation. (“She speaks six languages!” Porthos says. Aramis thinks about how excited Porthos is to learn new things. He imagines her teaching Porthos new words, and he can’t help but smile.)

The only wrench is that if Eve isn’t spending nights at her flat, she’ll be there when Aramis is. He’d been hoping for a trip where he could talk to Porthos, could look around at Porthos’ new life and see if it were the kind of thing he might like for himself. Instead, he fears he’s going to be an awkward third on an extended date. The naked eagerness in Porthos’ voice when he says, “You can meet her when you come visit!” is the only thing, _the only thing_ , which keeps Aramis from canceling his flight. 

 

Coming through security Aramis can see Porthos’ smile, his broad shoulders and bright eyes and his fucking luminous smile, and he thinks, for just a second, that this trip might not be a bad idea. Then, just past Porthos’ shoulder, Aramis catches sight of a woman who must be Eve. She is nothing Aramis expected, nothing at all. Eve is a tall, leggy blonde with bright blue eyes and a smile so dazzling it stops him in his tracks for half a second.

Porthos’ wraps him in a hug that’s everything Aramis has dreamt of and for long, delirious seconds Aramis closes his eyes and lets himself sink into it. He buries his nose in Porthos’ shirt and drags in deep breaths thick with the smell of Porthos’ skin. He whispers, “I love you,” into Porthos’ neck and hears the same echoed back into his ear. Aramis nearly tilts his head up for a kiss before he remembers Eve and his eyes flick over to where she’s standing, still smiling.

She’s impeccably dressed, even to come to the airport to pick up a childhood buddy of her boyfriend. Aramis wants to like her; he wants desperately to like her, because from the way Porthos talks about her she might be someone he has to like or not for the indefinite future and liking her would make it so much easier. It turns out to be unexpectedly easy.

On the drive back into the city she asks if she can practice her Spanish on him and when Aramis agrees she chatters happily for forty minutes about her work and the place she and Porthos had dinner last night and how handsome she thinks he looks in a suit. She twists around in the front seat to wink conspiratorially at Aramis because she knows Porthos won’t be able to understand her. Aramis’ gut clenches because he’s never seen Porthos in a suit and god, yes, he bets it’s a sight to behold.

He’s so tired, but he twists his face into something he hopes looks like a somewhat convincing smile; it must work because Eve turns back to facing front and keeps talking. Aramis stares out the window, watching Paris pass by him in a blur and tries not to grieve for the trip this was supposed to be. The first night in Porthos’ flat (which, really, suits Porthos perfectly) they all have a quiet dinner and Aramis watches Porthos and Eve head off to bed.

Stretching out on the sofa Aramis thinks about what he’d envisioned, curling up with Porthos and enjoying the way his love is always so warm at night. He thinks about kissing and fucking and just being quiet together and tries ignore how tight his throat is. Instead, he stares at the ceiling and thinks this is going to be the longest two weeks of his fucking life.

That sets the pattern for the next few days. Whenever Eve is around, Aramis can’t help but like her. She’s funny and smart and doesn’t let Porthos get away with anything. She teases him and compliments him and when Porthos says he’s thinking of trying for one of the most prestigious teams at work Eve says that she absolutely thinks he can do it, no question.

It’s when she’s not around that Aramis has problems. Because it’s seeming more and more like there isn’t an Aramis-shaped hole in Porthos’ life here just waiting to be filled. Porthos had said that he couldn’t imagine a life without Aramis in it, and now Aramis is wondering if that’s still true. His pride won’t let him ask, won’t let him say, “Please tell me you still need me. Please tell me there will still be a place for me in your world, even if it’s just a crack through which I can pour my love for you.”

Before Eve leaves for work on Monday morning, she and Porthos have enthusiastic and loud sex in the shower. When the door closes behind her Porthos gives a sheepish smile. “Sorry we were loud.”

“You weren’t loud, my dear Porthos. She, on the other hand-“

“Is a bit of a screamer, yeah. And a scratcher.” 

Aramis smiles, and when Porthos holds his arms out and waves him in, Aramis lets himself be wrapped in a hug. He presses a kiss into Aramis’ hair and says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?” Aramis says into Porthos’ neck.

“All of it? Any of it?” 

Aramis is taking a breath, gathering his thoughts, when Porthos’ mobile buzzes on the kitchen worktop. He reaches over to pick it up and grins at it, holding it out for Aramis to read. It’s a text from Eve saying, Have _fun with Aramis, see you both for dinner!_

 “Now,” Porthos says, his hand rubbing up and down Aramis’ back. “What were you going to say?” 

Aramis swallows and he can hear his throat click. He wants to take Porthos into the bedroom and let himself be fucked senseless. He wants to kiss Porthos for hours. He wants to not ever have a conversation asking how Eve would feel about that because he’s not sure what he’ll do if the answer is, ’Never again’.

“Nothing. I… Nothing."

Porthos says he’s taken the day off and asks if Aramis wants to go to the park and Aramis just doesn’t think he could handle that. Instead, they sit in the flat and watch movies; they hold hands the whole time and at one point Porthos lifts their joined hands to his mouth and kisses every one of Aramis’ knuckles. It’s an absentminded moment, it’s almost as though Porthos doesn’t even know he’s doing it, and that little moment of perfection in the middle of that day is what pushes Aramis over the line.

That evening Aramis sends a text to Fatima that just says, _I’m not sure I can stay here for two more weeks. I think it might actually kill me._

She doesn’t respond for hours but when she does, she sends the exact words he needs to see. _You’re allowed to leave, you know that, right?_

 

When Porthos comes out of the bedroom the next morning to kiss Eve goodbye and wish her a good day at work, he sees Aramis standing next to the couch, his little bag packed and sitting next to him on the floor. The door closes behind Eve and Porthos turns to him. “What’s this about?” 

“Porthos. I have to go.”

Porthos’ face is suddenly, terribly concerned. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, no, it’s nothing like that. Before… before I left my CO told me, they’re going to offer me non-commissioned officer if I re-enlist.”

“That’s. That’s more time than you thought you’d do.”  There’s something in Porthos’ voice, and Aramis isn’t sure what it is, doesn’t want to know, if he’s honest. “Aramis do you want to reenlist?”

“I don’t know, Porthos, and that’s the thing. I can’t make that decision here. I thought I could. I thought I could be here and be with you, and the answer would be obvious but it… it isn’t. I thought this would be the break I needed, but it’s not quite… right.”

“Is it something I’m doing wrong? We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. If you want me to tell Eve to spend a few nights at home and we can just drink and cook your mom’s recipes and tell stories, you just say the word. ”

The idea of asking Porthos for that, for the very thing he wants so badly, is so completely unreachable. Aramis can feel himself starting to wear thin at his stress points, panic and loneliness stabbing out like elbows and knees through old clothes. He won't ruin Porthos' happiness with his own issues.

“God, no! Porthos. You’re doing everything right. You know me so well, you know just when to tread lightly and be gentle and not push,” it comes to him then, sudden and fierce. “As much as I love that, I think I need to be somewhere where no one even knows me well enough to do that. Does that make sense?”

“I… think so?”

“Porthos, I think I need to be somewhere where I can leave myself at the door. I need somewhere fucking sunny. I need a beach. I want to lie in the sun and know I don't have to get into a helicopter or a Humvee or on a boat anytime soon. I want to stretch out on sand that I didn't have to march across, and be as drunk as possible. I want to spend an afternoon ogling beautiful bodies that still have all their limbs attached.”

“Fuck, Aramis.”

He can feel himself crying; he’s not even sure where it’s coming from but the tears are running down his face as he says, “I’m so sorry, Porthos. I didn’t know this was all still in me. I thought I was better. I have to go.”

When Porthos wraps his arms around him, there’s nothing left for Aramis to do, but breathe into his shirt and cling to him until the crying stops. “Whatever you need, Aramis. Whatever I can give you. Anything. I love you.”

 _Made of magic_ , Aramis thinks and huffs a laugh into Porthos’ chest.

On the way to San Sébastian, Aramis catches a whiff of Porthos’ aftershave and whips his head around. It takes a second for Aramis to realize that it’s coming from himself, from his own shirt, and all the places Porthos was touching him when they hugged good-bye. It’s coming from the skin of Aramis’ cheeks where Porthos had put his hands as they kissed, soft and slow, just before Aramis got on the train. He lets the smell of it, the ghost feel of Porthos’ palm against his face, wrap around him as he puts his head against the window and watches Paris disappear in the distance.

 


	12. Twenty-nine - Somewhere Fucking Sunny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first part of the week, Aramis doesn’t even leave the room, except to get takeaway, so he doesn’t starve, and a few bottles of wine in case the mood strikes him. He finds he rather likes the idea of having a quiet glass of wine on the balcony of his room. He sleeps, he reads, he watches TV. He listens to the waves. After three days, he feels like somehow his breathing has synced up to their rhythm, and there’s a kind of warm calm working its way down his arms and into his fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a chapter I didn't depress myself writing. The next chapter is mostly finished and I'm hoping to get it up later this week. A gift to myself, of sorts. Also? I put a chapter count on this sucker, we're two from the end.
> 
> Endless thanks to Cee for letting me wail at her and helping me learn to love this boy, as well as creating his entire story from wholecloth. Also to etoiledemer for letting me whine at her and for cheering me when I flagged, and to breathtaken for sending me pictures of that wretch all day today to keep me motivated.

It’s clear from the moment he walks through the door that not calling Nicole ahead of time was a good decision. She’d have been able to brace herself, to school her face and get her veneer of disinterest, and frankly irresistible sarcasm going. By not calling ahead of time, Aramis gets the joy of hearing her shout and drop a glass and seeing her face light up.

She runs around the bar and launches herself from the floor into his arms. “Oh, Aramis. It’s so good to see you.” For a few moments she hangs there, arms around his neck, and lets him just rock her slowly back and forth, her feet swinging a little in the air. Then, as if realizing how sentimental she’s being, Nicole pulls back and drops to the floor, straightening her shirt and hair and saying, “Why are you here?”

He could tell her everything, he knows. He could talk about N’djamena and Porthos and all the things that are weighing on his heart right now, and Nicole would just listen with that wonderful open face of hers and say exactly the right things. 

“I just needed a break. I haven’t had a proper holiday since I was a teenager.”

She smiles and claps him on the shoulder. “Well, this is just the right spot for it. Plus, it’s been long enough, there’s a whole new crop of lifeguards for you to work your way through.”

Aramis pulls her to him and folds his arms around her. He bends to kiss the top of her head and clenches his eyes shut, more than a little overwhelmed with just how good it feels to be here. Nicole tolerates it for all of about thirty seconds before starting to pull away. “I’ve got- Aramis, let go I’ve got customers.”

“They’ll keep.” He presses another kiss to her head. “I missed you.”

It’s only when Nicole goes limp and unresisting, ruining all the fun of feeling her squirm like a petulant cat, that he lets her go. Settling himself at the bar Aramis is treated to the best the new pintxos chef has to offer, and half a carafe of a red wine Aramis doesn’t think Nicole has ever let him drink before. He knows when he’s being pampered, and he smiles at her.

“Don’t give me that look, Sergeant Slutty. I’m happily taken. Turn the stare on the new lifeguards or some rich widow sunning herself on the beach.” She goes back to scrubbing glasses, stopping after another half minute to look up at him. “Where are you staying? The flat upstairs is taken, but Thomas has room in his house.”

He takes a second to consider it. Nicole’s boyfriend lives in an obscenely posh place in the center of town; there are enough rooms that he’d barely notice Aramis. Even still, even with all the benefits and the money savings, something in him says no. “I think I need to be on the beach, but thank you.”

She flicks him a side-eyed glare, but her heart isn’t in it. Aramis laughs, and Nicole has to turn her head so Aramis won’t catch her smiling. They pass little comments back and forth for the remainder of the evening, but for the most part Aramis just lets the sound of the place, the familiar smells and tastes, sink into his pores.

His hotel room overlooks the beach; at night he sleeps with the windows and balcony doors open. He likes the heat, the air moving over him, but really he's doing it for the sound of the water. He misses Porthos, but he knows he made the right choice in coming here. Aramis taps out a quick text to him, just to say he's arrived safely and that he’ll call soon. 

For the first part of the week, Aramis doesn’t even leave the room, except to get takeaway, so he doesn’t starve, and a few bottles of wine in case the mood strikes him. He finds he rather likes the idea of having a quiet glass of wine on the balcony of his room. He sleeps, he reads, he watches TV. He listens to the waves. After three days, he feels like somehow his breathing has synced up to their rhythm, and there’s a kind of warm calm working its way down his arms and into his fingers.

 

Late in the afternoon of the fourth day, Aramis puts on the tightest jeans in his suitcase and a shirt that was a close fit on him when he bought it, and that was before going through Legion training. He straps on his combat boots. For one thing they fit him better than any other shoes he owns, and for another, he’s not unaware of how good he looks in them.

He hits a club where, at his age, he’s probably too old to be in the target crowd. That doesn’t stop him from turning his face to the music like a plant to the sun and feeling the beat throb in his bones. Whether it’s the boots, the shirt or the jeans, by the time he hits the bar he’s got five phone numbers stuffed in his pockets and no idea who they’re from.

This, this, is what he needed tonight. No one here knows him, and everyone here is not just living, but alive. 

Some time later Aramis is dancing under the lights, sweat running down his neck and between his shoulder blades, when he feels a presence at his back. He ignores it for a minute, letting whomever it is decide how much effort they want to put into this. Aramis doesn’t want to go home alone, but he also doesn’t want to be cheaply won.

Before long the body behind him presses further into his back, hands at his waist and Aramis has a sense of long, slim fingers. Whoever it is, they’re shorter than Aramis, but not by much, and they move like water. Aramis lets them dance together for a few minutes before spinning with the beat to face his unseen partner.

Standing in front of Aramis is possibly the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. There is nothing about his face, nothing about his high cheekbones or gorgeous mouth, that Aramis doesn’t want to kiss until he has it memorized. The man reaches up with one hand to scrape his wavy, dark hair from his face as he looks up at Aramis with enormous brown eyes.

He hooks a finger into the neck of Aramis’ t-shirt and pulls him down. Aramis can feel the stranger’s goatee brush over his cheek as he leans in close. Shouting in Aramis' ear to be heard over the music he says, “Let’s get out of here.”

Aramis rears back to look at him and then asks, “Just like that?”

His voice drips like honey into Aramis’ ear, “We could stay here and have an awkward conversation before we go fuck. Or we could go fuck.”

Absolutely unable to argue with that logic, not tonight, Aramis snatches his hand and drags him to the door.

They do find the time for a bit of conversation before they get back to Aramis’ hotel. His name is Rai, and he hates that club, but he’s been trying to get off with the bartender for a week.

“Not tonight, though?” Aramis asks.

Rai laughs, and it’s like someone has reached down the front of Aramis’ jeans and stroked right over his cock. “Not tonight, gorgeous, no. Not from the moment you walked in the door."

As soon as they’re in the hotel room, Rai starts stripping down and heading for the bathroom. “Shower first,” he says. “I always come away from that place smelling of old vodka and strangers’ sweat. If I’m to smell like anyone else’s sweat tonight, I want it to be only to be yours.” 

Aramis might have expected a coy wink or a flirtatious grin; instead Rai just cuts the water on, drops his jeans on the floor (Well at least I’m not the only one in here not wearing underwear, Aramis thinks) and steps into the shower. Over the noise of the spray Rai yells, “Are you joining me, or shall I wash my own back?"

The shower is twenty minutes of slippery groping, wet kisses, and more laughing than Aramis has done in the last six months put together. Rai’s fingers work at the base of Aramis’ spine, and his lips work at the back of Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis takes Rai’s arms in his hands and soaps them meticulously from the shoulder down to the ends of each finger. When it’s Rai’s turn with the soap, he fumbles the bar, watching it slip from his hand and clatter against the floor of the shower. The two of them look down at it, then at each other, and then nearly bang their heads together in an effort to be the one who gets to show off his ass while picking it up.

They stumble out of the shower and head for the general direction of the bed, kissing and fumbling as they go. Just outside the bathroom Aramis stops, grabbing Rai by the shoulders and pushing him into the wall, keeping him anchored and still while Aramis kisses him. That’s the goal, anyway. In reality, Rai writhes against him, arching and wriggling and behaving for all the world as though he is trying to climb Aramis. 

Stroking his palms down Rai’s arms, Aramis takes his hands and brings them up to the wall above their heads, holding them fast. At the first grip of Aramis’ hands on his, Rai moans into the kiss, biting Aramis’ lower lip and tugging at it with his teeth. He lifts one leg, wrapping it around Aramis’ thigh and trying to pull them even closer together.

Aramis pulls away from the kiss, tightening his grip on Rai’s hands. “What does it take to keep you still for a second?”

Rai’s eyes are a challenge. “Why? Is that all you’ve got?"

With a startled laugh Aramis lets go of Rai's hands, reaching down, instead, to grab and lift and haul him bodily over to the bed. Aramis is using Rai’s ass for leverage while Rai is still trying to wrap both legs around him and kiss everywhere at once. It’s an utterly graceless affair, but in the end they are both on the bed, hard and naked and straining against each other. 

There’s just enough water left on them to make the first drags of their cocks together slick and fast. After that Aramis gets his hands on Rai’s arms again, holding them still while he tucks his cock into the hollow of Rai’s hip and groans at the friction. Rai finds the perfect spot on Aramis’ belly to press against and for a few beautiful, artless minutes they rut into each other, fast and sloppy and perfect.

Rai comes first, saying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” as he spills against Aramis’ skin. The feel of his come, hot and wet against his belly is what sends Aramis over. He doesn’t speak, just buries his face in Rai’s neck to muffle his shouts

Aramis kisses him, hard and affectionate, on the mouth before releasing Rai’s hands and flopping over onto his back. Rai reaches over one hand to pat him on the chest, “Well done, soldier.” 

As Rai is walking to the bathroom to get them both something to clean themselves off with Aramis calls out, “How do you know I’m a soldier?”

Rai comes back into the room with a damp facecloth in each hand and an exquisitely arched eyebrow. “With that haircut and those boots? You could hardly be anything else.”

Once they’re clean, Rai curls into Aramis’ side, pressing kisses into his jaw and the hollow behind his ear. Laughing, he says, “Would now be a good time to discuss our plans for round two?"

“How old are you?” Aramis asks, laughing.

“Twenty-four.”

“Well, I’m not. So it’s going to be a bit before round two.” Aramis swats Rai on the ass for punctuation, only to feel him roll his hips against Aramis’ side and give a breathy little moan.

Rai bites at Aramis' earlobe. “Then now is the perfect time.” Aramis is fuck-drunk and lazy, but Rai is still vibrating with energy. His hands are everywhere while he talks, and god, he never stops talking. 

Aramis can’t remember the last time he had a lover younger than himself; he supposes this is the kind of burden that comes with one, and it’s one he’s more than willing to bear. Such a hardship, he thinks and smiles to himself. “It seems unlikely that I could keep you from doing it, so go right ahead.”

Rai leans into the curve of Aramis’ neck, biting at the skin and soothing the mark with a long, slow lick. “I would not object,” he curls his hand over Aramis’ waist, scratching his fingernails lightly over the skin, “to taking it a little further with round two.”

Aramis twists to look down at him. “Further?”

“Mmm, yes.”

“How do you mean?”

Rai’s hand scrapes his hair back from his face again, and that movement is rapidly becoming one of Aramis’ favorites. "You noticed, did you not, that I liked it a great deal when you held me down? I know I was not quiet when I said ‘thank you’ as I was coming, because I enjoy having someone to thank for letting me come. Generally after they have spent some time telling me I mustn’t.” He’s blatantly rubbing himself against Aramis now, stroking their chests together, and Aramis is having a little trouble focusing.

“Then you enjoy taking the submissive role?”

Rai bends to take one of Aramis’ nipples in his mouth, worrying it with his teeth and looking up at Aramis from under his eyelashes before saying, “Let us say ‘bottom’ instead; I think no one who has been to bed with me would say I was submissive.”

Aramis groans at the feel of Rai renewing his attention to Aramis’ chest. “No, I suppose not.”

Bending to nose as the base of Aramis’ cock, scattering kisses over the skin and hair, Rai asks, “You don’t usually discuss this ahead of time, do you?”

Still soft, but loving the attention, Aramis’ hips roll up to meet Rai’s mouth. “Not... no. Usually it just… happens.” He thinks of Porthos, and how they’ve never had this discussion because there is no place Aramis would rather be than at his mercy. He imagines what it would be like to talk about it, to decide that this time Porthos will be under him, under his hands and will; his cock jerks with interest.

Rai takes notice of it and hums happily, stroking his cheek against it and kissing the skin below Aramis’ navel. His hands never stop moving, tracing paths down Aramis’ ribcage and back up his chest, pulling at his nipples and squeezing the muscles of Aramis’ shoulders. “Well. Not with me.” He smiles up at Aramis, nose buried in the curls at Aramis’ crotch, and notices the confused expression staring back at him. “Many of the things I like benefit from a little prior planning. I find it’s useful for avoiding,” he hums a little again and kisses the head of Aramis’ cock, "misunderstandings.” 

Aramis digs his fingers into Rai’s hair. It’s long and so soft, and there are streaks where the sun has bleached the dark brown to a bright russet. Strings of it are clinging to the sweat on Rai’s forehead; Aramis pulls a handful of it back from his face, tugging a little until Rai looks up at him. “Tell me.”

Rai preens under the attention, pushing his head up into Aramis’ hand. “Mmm, yes. I like that, but also harder.” Aramis gives a sharp pull, and Rai’s mouth drops open, his face going soft and open. “Again. Harder.”

Once again Aramis pulls, this time a nearly vicious tug. Rai’s eyes roll and he breathes out, “Thank you.”

Aramis runs his fingers along Rai’s scalp, soothing the skin. “And if I pull too hard?”

Rai is like a perpetual motion desk toy; he hasn’t stopped moving once since they walked through the door. When Aramis asks his question Rai is sucking a bruise into the skin of Aramis’ inner thigh; before he answers he kneels up and shuffles forward to straddle Aramis’ belly, and bends to press a kiss to his lips.

“I assure you that is nearly impossible, I am quite a slut for that particular pain. To reassure you though, if you approach any of my limits, I'll say ‘vodka.’” At Aramis’ quiet laugh he says, “It’s not something I’m likely to say during sex under other circumstances, so it gets the point across without ruining the moment."

Aramis grabs him by the waist, trying to stop the incessant roll of his hips. Instead, Rai gives a soft moan and writhes in Aramis’ grip. “Tell me,” Aramis says. “Tell me what else.”

Rai can feel Aramis’ cock starting to swell against his ass, and he grins. 

Aramis stops for a second to stare at Rai’s smile, and all at once he’s remembering everything he’s been through in the last year, every bullet and every jump from a helicopter, all the dust and dirt of N’djamena and the crushing sadness of Abéché. He can see Fatima’s face as he walked away from her flat for the last time, and the expression in Roget’s eyes when he’d taken away any chance Aramis had to be on a team with Rasool. 

Tracing his fingers over Rai’s eyebrows, Aramis wonders how both of these people live inside him, the curious lover and the sad, hard soldier. Rogers was twenty-one when he enlisted; he was Rai’s age when he died. The senseless waste hits him again, but before he can say anything Rai puts his palms to Aramis’ cheeks, cupping his face and looking straight into his eyes.

“Hey, come back.” 

What gets Aramis’ attention, is that for the first time all night Rai is perfectly still. Nothing on him is moving save for the slow rise and fall of his chest. It’s unusual enough to jar Aramis from his dark thoughts and remind him where he is, whom he is with. Aramis knows that if he re-enlists he’s likely signing up for another five years of hardship and loss, and if that’s what his future holds he wants to go into it with nights like this to remember. Moments with beautiful, warm, wicked bodies and smiles like Rai’s. 

No one’s life is easy. Not a Legionnaire’s, not a lawyer’s, not a teacher’s. They are only hard in different ways. All any of them ever has is a fist full of beautiful moments to pull out when the times get bad, when the boss is yelling or the kids are crying or Wade’s been pinned to the ground with rebar. He’s taking this moment in both hands.

Aramis’ eyes snap back into focus, and he grins. Hooking a leg over Rai’s, Aramis flips the two of them until Rai is laid out on the bed beneath him, bronze and lush and stunning. “You were going to tell me something else you like.” 

Rai squirms again, smiling; the movement and energy are back now. He takes Aramis’ hand in his, folding down all but the first two fingers and sucking them into his mouth. At the same time his knees fall wide, legs sprawling open against the duvet. Aramis can feel the heat rushing up the back of his neck. Oh yes, he’s a fan of this.

“Lube,” Aramis says and reaches for the drawer of the bedside table. While Aramis is stretched over him, Rai takes the opportunity to nip at any skin that’s within reach. Aramis has to reach one hand down and swat at the top of his head. “You are incorrigible.” 

Settling back to the bed, Aramis slicks up his fingers and then slides them over the skin behind Rai’s balls, stroking and pressing and listening to Rai whine. He doesn’t press any further back, doesn’t push into Rai’s tight, hot hole until Rai starts to beg. 

Aramis can’t remember the last time he had someone under him like this and pleading. Possibly never. He’s fingered Porthos, fucked him even, but there was never any question which of them was calling the shots. He finds he loves it. Not for the control, not really. He loves having Rai asking for it; he loves the idea that he can give this to him. That right this moment only he can give it. 

“Please, Aramis. Your fingers?” Rai is arching into Aramis’ chest, clutching at his shoulders and arms, stroking at his face. “Please. Please.”

Aramis makes to slide a finger in only to see Rai shake his head. “Two? Please?”

“Only because you asked so nicely.” 

With two of Aramis’ fingers sinking into his ass, Rai’s hands dig in everywhere they’re holding. When Aramis starts to fuck those fingers into him over and over Rai’s grip loosens, and he starts to flail and clutch again.

Aramis reaches across Rai’s chest and takes his far hand, moving it down and positioning it so that Rai is holding his own cock. The other hand Aramis holds fast with a grip around the wrist. He looks into Rai’s face and says, “Keep yourself busy, but don’t come until I say.”

For close to forty minutes Aramis drags Rai to the edge over and over. He curls his fingers against that spot inside Rai that makes him arch and thrash. He strokes and twists and stretches and Rai’s voice gets more and more strained and hoarse. Rai’s hand occasionally slows, but it never stops moving. 

He’s stroking himself, fucking his hand and letting his own wetness get him slick and slippery. When he’s getting close he meets Aramis’ eyes and says, “Please” with increasing desperation, and when Aramis shakes his head no, Rai whines and keens and begs. He is perfect.

Only when Rai’s face is flushed and his hair is slicked back from his head with sweat does Aramis say, “Now.” At the same time, he leans forward, taking Rai’s nipple in his mouth and sucking fiercely at it. That rush of pain and permission is all Rai needs to send him jerking and twitching over the edge. His come shoots up his chest, some of it landing along the side of his mouth. 

Rai looks up at Aramis and, without breaking eye contact, flicks his tongue out and licks it off.

Groaning, Aramis pushes at Rai’s shoulder until he is on his side, the two of them spooned together with Aramis’ cock snug in the crease of Rai’s ass. He fucks himself against it, feeling that hot, soft skin against him and all that gorgeous friction. He bites bruises into the back of Rai’s neck, telling him all the while how good he is, how beautiful he is, how Aramis will never forget his face.

Aramis will never forget his face.

When he comes, messy and hot between their bodies, it’s with the skin of Rai’s shoulder between his teeth and his name on Rai’s lips.

Rai reaches one hand back to tug at Aramis’ hair. “Come with me, old man. We are both disgusting, and there is a hot shower waiting for us.”

This shower is fast, they’re both only rinsing themselves off, and as Rai is drying himself, Aramis hears a low grumble and realizes it’s his stomach.

Rai laughs, and Aramis says, “Apparently we’ve worked up an appetite. Put some clothes on, and we’ll go out. Gandarias is open all night.”

The kitchen stopped preparing hot food at eleven but even now, after midnight, there is an impressive spread of cold meats and cheeses, fresh bread and olives, all the perfect foods for a balcony picnic. They load up take-away boxes with food, and within an hour they’re back in Aramis’ hotel room, blanket spread out over the floor, and one of the bottles of wine open to breathe. 

They’re lounging on the floor; each of them wearing only a pair of Aramis’ boxers and picking at the food. Aramis finds the ham he likes so much; Rai steals all the best olives. Not long into their feast Aramis feels Rai’s toes jabbing him in the calf. He looks up and sees a question on Rai’s face.

“Earlier, when you went somewhere else in your head, where were you?”

Aramis decides to tell him the truth. It’s late, and he’s a little drunk on both the wine and Rai’s body. “I was thinking of my team. My job. What I do can be very rewarding, but it’s dangerous. Last year I lost most of my team during a fight in Africa. I was thinking that I came here to remember what it’s like to be alive, to be with living people, and that you are the most alive person I’ve ever met."

“How much longer will you be a soldier?”

Aramis rolls to his back, folding his arms behind his head. “That’s something I have to decide. They’ve offered me a promotion if I stay in the Legion. When I first enlisted it was just another foolish decision in a long line of foolish, rash decisions. If I stay in it will be a deliberate choice, even if the choice is only to keep putting off settling down.”

Rai flips to his belly, laying a kiss against Aramis’ shoulder and scratching the back of one calf with the toes of the other foot. “This is not what you dreamed of then, what you wanted to be?” 

A thought occurs to Aramis, and he’s opening his mouth to say it before he’s even processed it. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought about what I wanted to be.” Not since he left the seminary.

“And now you will. So, Aramis, as the teachers always ask the children, what do you want to be when you grow up?” Aramis laughs and slaps his ass.

“You are a brat, has anyone ever told you that?” 

Rai heaves a deep, martyred sigh. “Countless times."

Aramis laughs; Rai may never live in his heart forever like Fatima or Porthos, but this is exactly the person he needs to know right now.

“Your deplorably incorrect assessment of my personality notwithstanding, it’s a question worth considering.”

Aramis nods, but the question seems hopelessly beyond him. What does he want? He knows what he wants in his small, secret heart. He wants to spend the rest of his life waking up to Porthos’ sleepy smile and falling asleep to Porthos’ arms around him. Perhaps if he hadn’t seen Porthos with Eve, seen how she is everything Porthos wants and deserves he might nurture that little spark of hope, but that wasn't how it happened. 

Instead, he saw every bit of her life fitting into Porthos’ dreams like a carpenter’s join. It would be easier if she were cold and brittle, if she were haughty and superior, but she is warm and funny and smart. She loves Porthos; she will be good for him. Good to him.

So now it is time for Aramis to ask himself the question he’s been avoiding asking since the moment in the tavern when he’d realized he was in love with Porthos. He’s avoided it with training and trips and new relationships, he’s avoided it with five years of jumping out of planes and helicopters and staring through a sniper’s scope.

If he can’t have a life with Porthos, what life does he want?

Unbidden, the last three months come to mind. Aramis has discovered that he is good with the new recruits. He is patient but firm, and his washout rate is lower than any other trainer in the regiment. If he’d let himself, if he’d loosened his crushing grip on the memories and started to let them go, he might even have enjoyed it.

As much as he loves Nicole, there is no future for him here. Argentina isn’t home anymore, despite the presence of his parents. Paris will always be Porthos’ home, a place to run to for hugs and support, if no longer for kisses and long, sweaty nights. Being a Legionnaire might not be the skill set his parents might have wished for him, if he’d been asked as a teenager it’s not even the one he would have wanted for himself, but it is the one he has now. He’s spent years and countless hours learning to be the best in the world at something he has learned he can love.

There are so many worse ways to make a life.

“I think, and I might change my mind tomorrow, but for now I think that I am doing something I want to do. Something I am good at, something that can make a difference. If not to the lives of the people we’re fighting for, then at least to the lives of the men next to me.”

Rai’s smile is soft and more than a little wistful. His foot is stroking along Aramis’ leg, and his eyes are sad. “Choosing for yourself is something so many take for granted, Aramis. Do not let the world decide for you while you are not paying attention. If it is at all within your power, do not let anyone decide for you.”

Aramis stretches across the blanket, his boxers dragging through the manchego, and kisses Rai, fierce and hard. “You sound as though you’re heading for an appointment with a firing squad.”

Rai’s laugh is nearly hysterical, sharp and broken. “Perhaps if the Legion no longer needs you, you might make your living as a fortune teller.” When Aramis cocks his head in question Rai says, “I’m to be married.”

His face is not so much sad, as resigned; Aramis does not offer his congratulations. 

Rai traces a finger down the side of Aramis’ face, across his jaw, and his smile is wistful and soft. “She’s a lovely girl; it won’t be a hardship, and this was the bargain I made. I could leave India, could go to school in England and live my life. I could see every part of the world I wanted to, and then I would return home and settle down. I would be the scion my family needs.”

Aramis kisses him again and holds out one of the last of the good olives. Rai sucks it from his finger with a trace of his usual impish grin. “When?” Aramis asks.

“When I turn twenty-five. I have about four months.”

Another kiss to Rai’s face, and then Aramis says, “I have just over a week. Neither of us should waste a second.”

The spark is back in Rai’s eyes now, if a little subdued. “Could we waste just a few hours, perhaps? Even those of us still in the blush of our youth need to sleep sometimes.”

Aramis laughs and reaches out to close up the takeaway boxes. “Sleep is never a waste of time. Particularly if it means waking up next to you.”

They fit themselves together like puzzle pieces, and Aramis pulls the sheet up over them; the air from the balcony is still gloriously warm. He presses a kiss to the nape of Rai’s neck and before he can think to say goodnight, Aramis is asleep. He doesn’t dream. Not of bodies, not of waterfalls, not even of Porthos. He doesn’t dream at all.

What wakes Aramis is not the sun coming through the balcony door or the sound of the tourists collecting on the beach, it’s the insistent press of Rai’s ass against his cock. If Aramis didn’t know better, he might think Rai was doing it in his sleep. He leans forward and bites softly at the shell of Rai’s ear. “Brat, I know you’re awake.”

Rai doesn’t even pretend to feel chagrined, he just laughs and heads to the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth. Aramis is right behind him and on their way back Aramis decides the bed is too far. He pushes Rai up against the wall, licking a kiss into his mouth, deep and filthy. When he feels Rai rolling against him, hard now and moaning with a high, needy sound, Aramis pulls back and says, “Tell me what you want me to do.”

Rai smiles, bright and wicked. “Yes, oh yes. I enjoyed this last time.”

“No,” Aramis says, his hand holding Rai’s jaw. “Not like last time. This time you tell me, just once, what you want, and then you stop thinking.”

Rai’s pupils blow wide, and his breathing gets fast and shallow. “I want to suck your cock.”

Aramis looks at him for a long minute. He didn’t miss the tiny moment of hesitation before Rai spoke. “Do you? Or do you want me to fuck your mouth?”

All at once Rai’s composure is gone. Until this moment he’s been so proper, even when he begged. Now he just says, “Fuck, Aramis. Please.” 

Sitting at the edge of the bed, Aramis has Rai kneel between his feet. He’s gorgeous like this, his hands on Aramis’ knees, and his eyes wide and soft. Aramis lets Rai start, lets him suck and lick and kiss for just a minute before Aramis puts his hands on the top of Rai’s head. He doesn’t push, but the intent is clear. Rai wraps his lips around the head of Aramis’ cock and relaxes his jaw. 

As Aramis thrusts up into that warm, wet mouth his lips are spilling a litany of praise. He’s telling Rai how beautiful he is, how good he’s being, holding so still. When he slides his hands down to cup Rai’s face, Aramis can feel his cock through the skin of Rai’s cheeks. He tells Rai how that feels, how he can feel the push of himself into Rai’s mouth. 

For his part, Rai is a concert of sounds. He whines and moans; when Aramis bucks his hips up hard Rai gives a choking cough and then groans, sinking his mouth back down. Aramis can feel Rai’s tongue raking up the underside of his cock, and when he looks down he can see the absolute lack of tension on Rai’s face. His eyelashes are soft against his cheeks, and he looks nothing so much as peaceful.

Hands cupping his cheeks, Aramis pulls Rai off his cock. He puts one hand under Rai’s chin and tilts his face up. Rai opens his eyes, and Aramis can see the struggle to make them focus, to bring himself back to the moment.

“I’m going to come in your mouth,” Aramis says.

Rai’s voice is rough, raw from Aramis’ cock in his throat. “Fuck, yes. Thank you. Thank you.”

That ‘thank you’ is what does it for Aramis. He’s coming almost before he can get back into Rai’s mouth. Rai’s eyes fall shut; those long eyelashes resting on his cheeks again, and moans around Aramis. When Aramis is finished, he pulls back out he leaves a slick of his come on Rai’s lower lip, and once again that clever pink tongue is licking out to clean it. 

“Stroke yourself for me, you can come whenever you want,” Aramis says, finding he’s getting a taste for this side of the power exchange. 

Rai whimpers, one hand sliding along his cock while he finishes licking Aramis' come from his lip. He brings his other hand to his mouth, sucking at his fingers as though he were missing the feel of Aramis, heavy on his tongue. When his orgasm hits, Rai hunches forward, curling over himself and saying, again, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

Aramis’ cock tries desperately to show renewed interest, but he ignores it. There’s no rush. While neither of them has forever, they at least have the rest of today.

For the last week of his holiday, Aramis is seldom separated from Rai. He finds that Rai is just the perfect kind of presence for his life at this moment. They have no secrets, in the way you only can when you never expect to see a person again. He tells Rai about Porthos, about his bottomless, endless love. He tells Rai about Eve and Paris and Porthos’ job and how it feels to not fit somewhere that he has always belonged.

Rai tells him about growing up in Shimla, of the estate his parents own and run as a luxury hotel and how he’ll be expected to help run it when he returns. He tells Aramis about Yami, his fiancée, how they’ve known each other since they were children, and how they’ll be good friends if nothing else. He never conceived of disobeying his father, he says, of going back on his promise. That’s not who he is, not where he comes from.

They fuck in every way they can imagine that doesn’t involve Aramis’ cock in his ass. (“I tried,” Rai said, with a little moue of displeasure. “It was not to my tastes.”) They kiss and kiss and kiss. There are hours spent sprawled in the sun on the beach, and more hours letting Nicole spoil them with the best the kitchen has to offer and all the wines she never let Aramis taste before he was a paying customer. 

It is, Aramis thinks, the easiest love he’s ever known. They don’t say it; they don’t have to. Aramis kisses Rai on the tip of his nose. Rai curls into Aramis’ chest as they sleep. They don’t need the words.

When Aramis packs his bag to head back to Calvi, he feels like he knows himself again. Perhaps better than he ever has as an adult. He’s made his choices. He’ll re-enlist and try to keep the men under his command as safe as he can. He’ll take every bit of Porthos he can get in any way he can, and not begrudge Porthos his future with Eve. After all, he’s known this was coming for years; it just hurts more than he’d expected.

He will make a life for himself.

He calls Porthos from the train. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

Porthos sounds relieved to hear from him. “It’s okay; I get it. And you texted every couple of days to let me know you hadn’t drowned, so I knew you were alright. How was it?”

“It was...” Aramis pauses. It was warm. It was full of laughter. It made me realize how much I love you, how much I will always love you. “It was just what I needed.”

Porthos sighs. “I am so glad to hear that. I missed the fuck out of you. Hate when we go this long without talking, all my jokes get rusty.”

“Porthos, you are only fooling yourself if you think those jokes are ever not rusty.”

“Did you make a decision, then?”

“I’m going back in,” Aramis says.

Porthos sighs, but Aramis keeps talking. “I know that five years ago this was not the best move I could have made with my life, I was young and scared. But it’s where I am now. And Porthos, I’m good at it. If I let myself, I even like it. Also, a wise man once told me that I could pass on what I know and help keep other soldiers safe.”

“That guy is an asshole. Don’t listen to him,” Porthos says, and Aramis laughs. “At least promise me you’ll be careful? There’s no one in this world I love like I love you, Aramis. It would _end me_ if something happened to you.”

Aramis feels his heart twist with love. He will never be over this man. “I promise.”

“Call me when you’re back on Corsica?”

“I will. Give my best to Eve. And Porthos? I love you.”

Aramis can almost hear the smile. “I love you, too.”

 

Roget is pleased to see Aramis back; he’s even more pleased to hear that Aramis is accepting the re-enlistment offer. The only stipulation Aramis has is that he’ll do it for three years this time instead of five. They’ll talk again at that point. He can hear Rai’s voice in his head reminding him not to let others make choices for him. It feels like he’s holding a little of his destiny for himself if he keeps the contract shorter, even if he only intends to renew it again.

All of the upper brass agrees to his request, and Aramis trades his green beret for the red of a non-commissioned officer. He spends the autumn working with his teams on close-quarters combat tactics and rapid insertion techniques. In the winter, like a cosmic joke, long after any chance to protect Porthos is past, they receive orders sending them to Afghanistan.

Aramis spends Christmas with his teams, each of them cooking something special to them, and he finds that either they respect him, or they’re doing an exemplary job of faking it. Every single one of them is important to him, even the one who reminds him of Rogers. Especially the one who reminds him of Rogers. Just before they leave for Afghanistan, Aramis hears that Rasool has deserted while on a weekend liberty in Italy. He finds that his overwhelming reaction is a feeling of relief. One of them, at least, he no longer has to worry about. At night, he prays for a good life for his old friend.

For the next year of his life Aramis spends most of his days in the kind of loud, dirty transport trucks which are constantly on the brink of falling apart. He becomes an expert in engine repair and maintenance. He thinks he’s trained his men well in how to spot an IED, until one day in May when he loses two of them to a cleverly hidden bomb on a road in the middle of nowhere. Aramis meets with several of the other NCOs, and they revamp the regiment's training course on explosive devices until it’s as tight and close to the current reality as they can make it. 

Aramis calls Porthos after the explosion and tells him everything. He talks about the men who died, what they were like and how they will be missed. He tells Porthos about the new training plans, and Porthos says he’s never been so proud. There are no nightmares.

In early fall, his parents call; they’re approaching their fortieth wedding anniversary and as a gift to themselves they’re taking a trip to their favorite cities. They’ll spend a day or two in Venice, a few in London and finish with a long weekend in Paris. “It would mean the world to your mother,” Mathieu says, “if you could be there.” 

“Just to mother?” Aramis teases.

He promises his father that he’ll try, and that same afternoon he starts laying the groundwork. The trip is in January, that should be plenty of notice. It’s not as though he doesn’t have the leave, and the timing is perfect, since he’s due to be rotated back in the New Year. 

Aramis calls Porthos; his mother has beaten him to the punch. 

“Are you going to be able to make it back to Paris when your parents are here?” Porthos sounds cautiously optimistic.

Every time they speak, every single time for all these years, Porthos’ voice sends a wave of calm down Aramis’ body and warms his heart. “I’m going to do my very best. I told Roget already, and I think it coincides with our rotation back in for training and recertification.”

“God, Aramis, it would be so fucking good to see you. I don’t say it, because I know it’s nothing either of us can help, but I miss you so goddamn much.”

“We said it wouldn’t ever be that many years again and I’m doing everything I can, Porthos. I miss you, too.”

“You’ll stay with me when you come?”

Yes, Aramis thinks, he can handle that now. “Of course."

They talk about where his parents might want to go for dinner; they talk about Porthos’ job and Eve. She’s just received a massive promotion, and Porthos is glowing for her. They talk about Fatima, how she and Pawel have finally gotten a posting in the same place and are enjoying their first extended time together in years. She’d told Aramis to send Porthos her love and with a fond sigh Porthos says, “She’s something else.” Aramis can’t help but agree.

Porthos’ job is sending him to New York in a week, and Aramis says how jealous he is. Porthos laughs and says he’ll bring Aramis back a present.

When it’s time to hang up Porthos is quiet for long seconds. “I love you, Aramis.”

“I know that, Porthos. I love you, too.”

Aramis tries to read the silence, but Porthos just says goodbye and Aramis is left confused.

Getting his leave request approved is so easy it’s almost anticlimactic, and the week before his trip Aramis calls Porthos to let him know the flight details. Porthos is quiet, subdued, and when Aramis asks he says there’s just a lot going on. 

“If you need to talk, brother, you know where I am.”

“I know, Aramis. Thank you. You’ll be here in a week anyway and… yeah, that would be good.”

They say, “I love you," they say, “I miss you.” For the first time in far too long they say, “I’ll see you soon,” and those words put a smile back into Porthos’ voice.

When Aramis gets off the plane from Afghanistan he feels unbelievably grubby, and he wonders if he should stop at the bathroom in the terminal and sponge himself off. Porthos is waiting, he reminds himself, and there is no more thought of stopping. Not for anything.

Coming through security, Aramis looks around for Porthos. If it weren’t for his smile Aramis might have walked right past him. His hair is longer, twisted into gorgeous curls and god, Aramis hasn’t seen his hair that long since they were teenagers. He’s grown a beard, and it only serves to highlight the dimples in his cheeks. He has, somehow, gotten better looking, and Aramis is breathless.

And fuck, he’s wearing a suit. He must have come straight from work. His shoulders look incredibly broad, and with his neatly trimmed beard and easy smile he is devastatingly handsome. Aramis’ brain stutters to a stop, and it’s only when Porthos calls his name that he comes back to himself. Aramis walks over to him and, like the finale of a terrible movie, he drops everything he’s carrying to grab Porthos’ neck in a hug. Porthos clings to him like Aramis is saving him from drowning.

“Fuck. Missed you.”

Aramis nods into Porthos’ neck, “Missed you, too.”

Once Aramis is back on flat feet, wiping his eyes clear, he looks around. “No Eve?”

There’s a shadow over Porthos’ face. “No, no Eve.”

Aramis gives his best smile. “Where is she?”

Porthos jams his fists into the pockets of his jacket and tries to keep a calm face. “Her flat, probably. I don’t know. We ended things a week ago.”

The world shifts under Aramis’ feet and he blinks. “Come again?"


	13. Thirty - Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I will make this as clear as I possibly can, because at some point tomorrow we’re going to have to go to dinner with your parents and I don’t want to still be having this discussion then. Are you listening?” Porthos asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cee's endless support and near-daily pep talks made this better than it ever would have been if I'd been left to my own devices. Nat cheered me on and broke the crucial scene wide open for me. Dee menaced just as hard as she could and is 100% responsible for dreaming up the bit with the tie.

 

Aramis feels the world shift under his feet. “Come again?"

Porthos gives a quiet smile and shrugs one shoulder. “Later, okay?" 

Clapping him on the arm, Aramis says, “Yeah.  Of course." 

Porthos grabs the Aramis’ duffel in one hand and his coat in the other.  “Let’s get you to the hotel, your folks are waiting.” He leans in, a shy smile on his face, and kisses Aramis on the cheek. “Welcome back." 

Aramis can feel his heart twist in his chest.  Whatever happened with Eve, it’s left Porthos feeling vulnerable and a little raw. He slides his hand up to rest on the back of Porthos' neck, gentle pressure just to say, ‘I’m here. I love you. I’ll help in any way I can. 

 

The drive back into town is a mostly silent affair.  Not tense, just the calm quiet of people who have known each other too long to need to fill every second with sound.  Halfway to the hotel Aramis feels Porthos’ hand slip over his own.  He doesn’t even turn from the window, just curls his fingers around Porthos’ and grips them fiercely. Aramis knows that whatever else his life brings, he will never feel as _right_ as he does when he’s next to this man.

Carolina and Mathieu are waiting in the lobby of their hotel, and as soon as he sees them Aramis feels ten years old again.  His mother fusses over him, patting at his short hair and touching the new scars on his face and neck.  She cups his face in her hands and he is not, _is not_ , going to cry. 

She pulls his head to her shoulder and wraps her arms around him; her “Shhhh,” is soft and sweet in his ear.  He can feel her hand stroke down his back, and he stops trying to hold it together at all.  She’s a tall woman, so it’s comfortable just to stand here like this, in the protective circle of her arms and her love. All the lovers, all the drinks and holidays and fucking in the world do less to heal him than the voice of his mother in his ear saying, “I am so glad you’re safe."

When he’s finished crying, when his mother is finished hiding his tears in the folds of her coat, he hugs his father as well.  Mathieu has been going gray since Aramis was a boy, and now his hair is completely silver.  In his particular brand of vanity, Mathieu is cultivating it as a deliberate look.  Between the hair and the lines at the corners of his eyes, he is the perfect distinguished older man. When Mathieu holds out his arms, Aramis sees none of that. He sees only the same kind face that comforted him throughout his life, through every rough day of his childhood and all the years since. 

Porthos stands with his hands in his pockets and just smiles at them.  Carolina reaches out to him and hooks her arm through his.  “I am glad we got time with you yesterday, I don’t know that Mathieu and I could have survived this if we’d had to greet both of you at once after so long.”  Porthos bends to kiss her head, and she flushes under the affection.

There is a late lunch, sandwiches and coffee and catching up with each other, and then Aramis’ parents excuse themselves back to the hotel.  They’ve had a busy day and tomorrow is the big dinner with all of their old friends from Paris, so they need to rest.  There are hugs and kisses all around, Porthos seems as dazed as he always does when he gets the same level of affection as Aramis, and then the two of them are left standing in the lobby together, alone.

“Home?” Porthos asks.

Aramis nods, unsure but willing.  “Of course, yes.”

 

On the drive back to the flat, they keep the conversation light.  Porthos tells stories of his team leader, a man of terrifying intellect and razor wit who handpicked Porthos for his team.  They’ve worked together for a while now, and their mutual respect and professional appreciation has settled into a real friendship.  Porthos clearly adores the guy. 

“Maybe we can have lunch with him while you’re in town,” Porthos says, unlocking the door to the flat and flipping on the lights.  It’s not even properly evening yet, but the January sky is already dark.  “Drink?”

“Yeah,” Aramis nods. “Hell yeah.”

Porthos pulls two beers from the fridge, popping them open and handing one to Aramis.  The crack of the bottle cap coming off is almost too loud for what seems to be an increasingly loaded silence. 

Aramis is leaning against the worktop; legs stretched out in front of him.  He’s rolling the bottle back and forth between his hands, a nervous tic. “Do you want to talk about it?”  Aramis asks.

Sitting at the table, elbows on his knees, his fingers toying with the label on his bottle, Porthos takes a sip of his beer and sucks at his teeth.  “Nothing to talk about, really.”

“What happened?” Aramis asks

Porthos frowns and shakes his head, so Aramis tries a different tack.  "Are you sure there’s no chance of working it out?”  Aramis can see Porthos’ perfect future slipping away, and he’s mourning that loss. 

“Aramis,” Porthos pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers and sighs.  “Trust me when I say it’s not even something I want to try.  She told me the life she wanted; it wasn't going anywhere I wanted to be.” 

Aramis suspects it’s more than that, there’s something Porthos isn’t saying and he finds himself growing angry. Even if Aramis is not made for the life Porthos deserves, even if he has to watch it from the outside, Aramis wants every single bit of that perfect dream for him.  The idea that Porthos is deliberately letting go of a chance at that without a fight is beyond frustrating. 

He puts his beer on the counter and crosses his arms over his chest, nervous but determined to get this out.  If Porthos is going to let this go, it won’t be for lack of trying on Aramis’ part. 

“Porthos, I’m far from an expert on this, but could you reconsider? I only saw you together the once, but even I know she’s a girl you can have a future with. She loves you, and you love her; you told me so.” He holds his hands out, palms up. "Relationships are work; everyone knows that. There’s always time for another try for a woman like that. If it doesn’t work, no harm done. But if it does, if it works out? You and I both know she’s the marrying kind. Then you can have lots of babies I can spoil when I’m babysitting.”  He smiles, trying to be encouraging. 

His brows drawing together, Porthos says, “What?” 

Aramis rakes his hand through his hair. “Remember what you said about my mother and father? Waking up at eighty and finding that you’re still in love with the person you picked for forever.  You deserve that.”

Porthos has a feeling he’s missing something huge. It isn’t like Aramis to push like this when Porthos has said no.  He can sense it, just under the surface but still out of reach.  All he can do is say, “Yes, Aramis. I know I do.” 

Aramis nods. Finally, finally Porthos is seeing the grand scheme, the bigger picture.  It will be worth any amount of work and having to listen to loud morning sex in the shower if he can help Porthos toward a future he deserves. Aramis picks up his bottle and points it at Porthos. “Exactly.”  He takes a drink and continues. "That’s why we’ve never had that kind of relationship.”

Porthos starts to laugh, like Aramis has just made a fantastic joke, and then he sees the look on Aramis’ face, that soft, desperate sincerity.  The laughter stops, and Porthos sets his beer on the table. He crosses his arms and leans his chair back on two legs, leveling a gaze across the table.  “Tell me, Aramis, why you think we’ve never dated.” 

There’s wetness on his hands, and Aramis is sure it’s not all from the bottle.  He sets the beer back down and wipes his palms along the thighs of his jeans. He can’t figure out why Porthos is digging like this. Porthos is the kindest man he’s ever known, not cruel by nature. So why is he picking at this? 

“I can’t give you want you want… what you deserve. I know me too well.” He rubs his forehead, pinching the skin between his fingers and never once looking up at Porthos. “You want someone you can wake up with at eighty and… Claire was right; I’m not meant for that life. I fall in love, and fall in love, and fall in love.  Even with the best intentions, it wouldn’t change if I were with you; it’s just who I am."

Aramis drops his head back and stares at the ceiling, getting lost for a minute in the pattern of light and shadows, wishing he were anywhere but having this discussion. “And god, Porthos, I couldn’t stand to see your face when that happened, it would kill me to hurt you. You’d never look at me the same again, before long you’d stop trusting me as a friend, as well as a lover, and then we’d both be out a brother.  I wouldn't recover from that, Porthos. I would never recover from that.”  It’s twisting his heart just talking about it, stealing his breath even in the abstract. 

He drops his head again, looking across the room, "With Eve, that will never be an issue.”

Porthos is staring at him, and Aramis can’t read the look.  It might be anger, but it looks more like confusion.  Like he is honestly baffled by something Aramis has just said.

Porthos’ mouth quirks up on one side.  “You idiot.”

Aramis pauses mid-drink. “I’m sorry?" 

“You.”  The front two legs of Porthos' chair slam to the floor.  "Are a fucking idiot. How do you not know that we've been in a romantic relationship for a decade and a half?” 

There is split second pause and Aramis feels like he’s been kicked in the chest; his entire body goes hot and cold at once. No. No, that is not what’s been happening. For a decade and a half he’s been watching Porthos spiral closer and closer to all the things he’s wanted, and Aramis has spent those years learning to accept who he is, and how different he is from what Porthos wants.  “You’re wrong.”

Porthos’ face is a mask of exasperated patience, as though he is explaining to a child for the eighth time that if you lean too close to the drinking fountain, you’ll get water up your nose. 

“Aramis.  Do we go to the movies and cuddle on the couch?  Do I tell you I love you and do we have mind-blowing sex? Do we have _fucking picnics in the park_?”   His voice has been rising, and the last word is nearly a shout. 

Aramis can’t figure out why Porthos is being deliberately obtuse. “Yes, we do.”

“Then explain to me how we are not dating? Are you expecting there to be a fucking parade? What part of that is not dating?” Porthos asks. 

Aramis is heartsore and tired. He remembers Fatima telling him that he’s not broken, that he’s just different, but having to say the reality of who he is over and over like this is just driving it home. While he may not be broken, he doesn’t fit in this puzzle. The last of his composure finally snaps.

“The part where I fall in love with other people!”  Aramis shouts.  “The part where I fuck them! That’s not how it works!”

Porthos’ voice is frustrated and earnest. "Says fucking who?”

“Says you!"

Porthos shakes his head. “When did I ever say I wanted anything other than a life with you?” 

Aramis is completely, utterly thrown. “You said you wanted a family like my parents.  You said they had what you wanted; I was standing right next to you when you said it."

“Fuck, Aramis.”  He’s smiling now; it’s a fond, tired thing. “I meant… I didn’t mean their exact relationship. I meant the things they have together, safety and security and love that lasts for decades. Which, I want to remind you, ours _has_." 

There isn’t a solid, concrete thing in Aramis’ head right now. It’s getting so loud. "I thought…"

“‘Course you did. That’s what you do. You start thinking, but you never once consider what if whatever conclusion you come to is wrong.  You decided that I should be with someone forever, right?”

Aramis just stares at him; words are beyond him at the moment.

“You did that because you love me, I get that, but I’m betting that then you decided what that person would be like. You got it set in your head, and you never once considered that you might be wrong. Fuck, I wish you had, because if you had, you’d have realized that I was already spending my forever with you, Aramis." 

Aramis has hit his limit; it’s like there’s a storm of noise and signals in his head, and he needs to get the fuck away from this conversation for a minute.  He’s across the living room before he realizes what he’s doing, throwing open the balcony door and stepping out into the bitter cold of the night.  The air feels amazing on his face, the railing icy and firm under his fingers.  He’s taking deep, heaving breaths and trying to pin something down, pin anything down, in his head.

He can remember, with perfect clarity the first time he knew what kind of love Porthos should have.  Standing by the Camino, thinking that Porthos deserved someone who would love him, and only him, because Aramis didn’t know yet, didn’t know how many loves a heart could hold. He’d been nineteen, and the only true and lasting love he’d ever seen had been his parents.  That’s what forever looked like to him. It looked like two people utterly devoted to only to each other.

How long?  How fucking long has he been wrong. How long has he been shutting himself out when Porthos has only ever been inviting him in?  He thinks of all those years, of all the loves he’d known in that time, and wonders if he would have traded them for those years with Porthos. Each of them had been a step closer to his true self; they’d given him so much.

There’s the sound of the balcony door opening, and then the solid warmth of Porthos next to him the railing.  "I said it to you before you enlisted; I don’t know what happens to me without you. I sat there in Calvi and said I didn’t have a future without you, and you said we’d always have each other.”  Porthos turns to him and asks quietly, "What the fuck did you _think_ I was talking about?” 

Aramis curls his hands over the railing and drops his forehead to rest between them.  “I thought you meant we’d always have a place in each other’s lives. That even when you were married and surrounded by kids that you’d still want to drag me over for dinner twice a week and roll your eyes when I bought loud toys for Christmas presents.” 

Porthos cups his hand over the back of Aramis’ neck, squeezing just a bit.  Aramis stays still for a moment, letting the reassuring warmth of Porthos’ skin settle into him before moving to stand again. He turns and Porthos is looking back at him with a steady, even gaze.

“I will make this as clear as I possibly can, because at some point tomorrow we’re going to have to go to dinner with your parents and I don’t want to still be having this discussion then.  Are you listening?” Porthos asks.

Aramis can only swallow and jerk his head in what he hopes Porthos knows is a nod.  Porthos drops their foreheads together and speaks into the air between them. 

“I am in love with you. I have always been in love with you. Since I was sixteen, I’ve wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.  As far as I’m concerned I have been, and I don’t intend to stop unless you tell me you don’t want the same thing.  And just so we’re clear about this, I’m talking about _you_. All of you.  Not some make-believe version of you where we have the same relationship as your parents and those boring couples in the park." 

Aramis is staring at him, eyes wide, and Porthos can see the tumblers falling into place.  “When I called home and told you about Fatima…”

Porthos gives a little head shake and smiles, “Fuck, Aramis, do you even know what you’re like when you’re falling for someone? All the things I love best about you, all that energy and passion and spark, they’re turned all the way up when you’re falling in love.  You’re gorgeous. Why in hell would I want to stop that?” 

It’s only then he realizes what Porthos has been telling him. The question of whether Aramis would have traded his other loves for those years with Porthos? He would never have had to choose.  It was always ‘and’, it was never ‘or’. 

Porthos pulls back and drops his eyes, as though he’s trying to decide whether he should say the next bit or not.  “The only time I ever worried, the only time I was ever scared, was Claire. Not because I was jealous or because I didn’t like her.  I loved her; it was hard not to.  It was just-- I worried you wouldn’t come back, that you’d marry her, and I’d lose you for good."

Aramis remembers how desperately he had wanted exactly that with her. "I might have."

“You might have, but only because you were still convinced there was only one way to be happy with someone.  Lucky for both of us she saw that in you, saved you both. Saved me.  Aramis, your heart is too big, one love could never fill it up, and I know that.  I know you would be happy with just me; I’m not saying I’m not enough, just that there’s always room for more happiness. So go on, go fall in love with women, with men, with people who are neither and people who are both.  And then come home and tell me all about it so I can see that look on your face.” Porthos takes Aramis’ face in his hands. "Fatima was right about the garden, loving someone else doesn’t make you love me less, does it?"

Aramis breathes, “No, never.”

"Then stop killing yourself for a rule that’s only in your head, because as long as you come home to me in the end, I want you to have all the love your heart can hold.  And when you come home, Aramis? I will still be here.  Always.  You _are_ my home." 

Everything Aramis has been trying to hold back since the conversation began comes spilling out.  He’s crying, not from any one emotion, but from the overwhelming rush of so many at once.  "I really am an idiot." 

Porthos smiles at him, that same smile that’s been stopping Aramis’ heart for fifteen years.  It does that again now. "You really are,” Porthos says, dropping his hands to Aramis’ waist. "You're lucky I'm so in love with you.”

Aramis runs his fingers through Porthos’ hair, loving being able feel the curls around his fingers the same way he used to, the way he’s missed for so many years. "What about marriage and a family?"

"You wanna get married? We can do that. And _you're_ my family. You want more family? We'll make that happen. But with you, Aramis. It's always been _you_.”

Aramis cups Porthos’ face in his hands and presses a heartbreakingly tender kiss to his mouth.  “I’m so in love with you.  I’m sorry I spent so long thinking I couldn’t tell you."

Porthos smiles against his mouth. "Maybe next time ask?” 

Burying his face in Porthos’ neck, Aramis feels the minutes stretch on and on. The idea that there is no rush, no guilt or fear, just all his minutes with Porthos stretching ahead of him, is a heady feeling.  He presses a kiss to Porthos’ neck and leans back, spotting something among the curls of Porthos’ hair.  “Look at that, when did you start getting grays? Or... silvers, I suppose.”  He smiles, a quiet, bone-deep happiness smile. “I’ll be next to you when the rest of these outnumber the black.” 

Porthos drops his forehead to Aramis’ and laughs.  “Maybe by then you’ll have grown into your ears.” 

“I love you.” 

“I love you.

They grab two fresh beers and make their way into the living room where they curl on the couch, Aramis’ head on Porthos’ chest, and Porthos ‘hands carding through Aramis’ hair.   Aramis curls his fingers against Porthos’ waist, feeling all that warm skin under his hand.  

“Now that I’m not trying to marry you off to her, do you want to tell me what happened with Eve?”

Porthos’ chest heaves a sigh under him. 

“That promotion was good for her; it was great, and god, I’m so proud of her.  She’d been planning and dreaming so hard for so long, and here she was seeing her dreams come true and her plans become real.  She was so excited, and I was so excited for her.”

He stops to rub his cheek against the top of Aramis’ head.  There’s love, still, in his voice, and Aramis knows that whatever ended it, there was no screaming fight.

“When she started talking about it though, about how she saw her future and how she saw me in it… I just couldn’t. She’s fantastic, but somehow she had just missed big parts of who I am.  Or she didn’t want to see them.  Last month she had a big client dinner on the same night as one of my volunteer shifts at the youth center in Clichy-sous-Bois, and when I said I wasn’t going to cancel my shift to go with her it was like I’d told her the world was flat.” 

Aramis tightens his arm, pulling himself even further into Porthos’ body. 

“That’s where I grew up, Aramis. That’s where I’m from, and there’s no way I’m going to forget that. I like being able to go back there and work with kids like I was.  When I saw that look on her face, I just knew.  This is who I am.  I’m a kid from that neighborhood who got so fucking lucky.  I’m a soldier who will never stop trying to keep the bullies back.  There will never be a night when I pick a client dinner over a youth center shift.” 

Porthos tugs at Aramis’ hair until his head comes up enough for Porthos to kiss his forehead.

“And I knew that, yeah?  I knew that about me, but I’d never had to think about it when there was another option open to me.  I’d never had to choose it, but in the end I knew it was really the only choice I could make. I guess it takes trying on a life that doesn’t fit to figure out you want to wear the one you already have, if that makes sense?”

His head moving in a nod, Aramis turns his head to kiss Porthos’ collarbone. 

"That life she wants?  It’s a great life.  But it’s not mine."

“This is your life.” 

Porthos smiles and turns Aramis’ face up for a kiss.  “This is my life.” 

He doesn’t tell Aramis the rest, probably never will.  He doesn’t say that when he told Eve that Aramis would be staying with them while he was in town she’d looked at him with a look of frustrated confusion and asked why he couldn’t get a hotel room.  When Porthos had said, “He’s my best friend,” she’d asked if Porthos didn’t think maybe he’d outgrown that friendship. 

Aramis was still living a life of reckless wandering; she’d pointed out, and it didn’t look like he’d ever settle down.  Was that really the kind of friend that Porthos wanted?

Porthos had stared at her, completely stunned as it finally hit him.  Eve didn’t like Aramis, and that was something Porthos could not even being to comprehend.  Aramis is a pain in the ass, yes.  He’s reckless and short sighted and stupid, but he’s _perfect_. 

Since their first kiss, Aramis had been a given in his life, in his heart. It had been instinct to want Aramis; there had been no question that they would be together.  At that moment, standing there with Eve looking at him and waiting for an answer, Porthos had realized he was being presented, once again, with another option.

All it would have taken was a nod, just the briefest moment of agreement, and Eve would have booked Aramis a hotel room and taken Porthos to bed. He’d have woken up the next morning in a life where forever with Aramis was not a given. Just like the client dinner, all it had taken was seeing the other option to know exactly what his choice would be.

It had been Aramis.

Looking at Eve, he’d just said, very simply, “That’s not going to happen.”  She didn’t need the details; she probably didn’t want them.  Porthos had told her that he loved her but that they’d reached a point where their futures were growing further and further apart, and they should stop now before they got any further along.  Before anyone got bitter and angry.

It hadn’t been that easy, there had been more discussions and more tears, but a few days later he’d come home to find all of her things gone from his flat and her key sitting on his kitchen worktop.  Athos had taken him for pints the next night. He made what Porthos supposed were meant to be sympathetic noises, and said, “You seem to be taking this well.”  All Porthos could do was shrug.  Once he’d been presented with a choice, there hadn’t even been a question. 

Here, now, curled on the couch with Aramis’ breath on his neck and the smell of Aramis’ hair in his nose Porthos knows that while Aramis will never know any of that, he’ll make sure that Aramis always knows what he means to Porthos. That Aramis will always be the only choice.

“Come on, love of my life,” he says, kissing the crown of Aramis’ head.  “You still smell like an airplane; get a shower and come to bed.  You need to sleep, and I need to be holding you somewhere where my right arm isn’t going numb.”

It’s the best night’s sleep either of them has had in longer than they care to remember.

 

Aramis is exhausted.  Moreso than he was even willing to let on, clearly, because Porthos’ internal alarm clock wakes him at seven, but Aramis doesn’t even stir when he gets up to hit the bathroom and brush his teeth.  When Porthos comes back to bed Aramis hasn’t moved a muscle, he’s most of the way onto his stomach with one knee cocked up, and his face buried in one of Porthos’ pillows. 

Porthos stops to think that when Aramis leaves to go back to Corsica that pillow will still smell like him. He’s going to be able to bury his nose in it and for half a second, it will feel like Aramis is still here.  It won’t be enough; it never is, but with a year and a half still left on Aramis’ contract, it will have to do.

He slides back onto his side of the bed and pulls the sheet back over them.  Aramis’ back is bare, and Porthos can see two new scars.  Laying kisses on them, he brushes his beard against Aramis’ neck.  Porthos isn’t actively trying to wake him up, but he wouldn’t be upset if it happened.  They’d been too emotionally and physically exhausted last night to do anything but kiss a bit before passing out.

Aramis doesn’t even twitch in his sleep.  Porthos can’t remember the last time he had this pleasure, to be awake before Aramis and have nowhere to go.  He wraps one arm around Aramis’ waist, humming a soft, pleased sound into the back of Aramis’ neck.  Porthos’ hand traces patterns up Aramis’ chest, over his shoulders, down his back. 

He’s forgotten how warm Aramis always is, how he can feel the muscles bunching just under the skin in some places.  By now, if he were awake, Aramis would have rolled to his back and be kissing Porthos, things would grow heated and charged and the quiet would not last.  To be able to touch like this is a rare joy.  Porthos presses another kiss to the top of Aramis’ spine and runs his hand down Aramis’ thighs.  He’s been running more now that he’s working with fresh recruits, and Porthos can feel the difference it’s made. 

Palms stroking back up; Porthos stops to cup Aramis’ ass in his hand.  When Aramis’ breathing doesn’t change Porthos curls his fingers and drags his fingernails up and over to the small of Aramis’ back just to feel the dark, crisp hairs move against his skin.   Touching Aramis like this, knowing that long years of loving has given them this kind of freedom and familiarity, that Aramis has done this to Porthos in the past and now it’s Porthos’ turn, is a heady drug and Porthos can feel his own body waking even if Aramis' is not. 

He knows that the only reason he can do this, the only reason he can touch and kiss and look at Aramis like this is because of the trust they’ve built together.  Aramis is a soldier used to combat; his body is tuned to it even when they’re safe on Corsica.   They’ve joked before about what it’s like to live in a barracks full of men who’ve trained themselves to be hair-trigger light sleepers, but here in Porthos’ flat, in his bed and in his arms, Aramis doesn’t need to be that soldier anymore. This has become one of the only places where he doesn't have to be on 50% watch even when he's asleep.

That trust has made Aramis boneless and lax and it, combined with the travel and emotions of the day before, is why he doesn’t stir when Porthos trails his fingers down the crease of his ass.  Porthos is propped on one elbow, and he can see down over Aramis’ face.  His eyelashes are resting on his cheeks, heavy and full, and his face is totally soft.  He looks years younger and Porthos smiles. He’s missed this face, but he will always love the waking Aramis more just for the spark in his eyes. 

Increasing the pressure,  Porthos pushes his fingers a little deeper into the crease and hears Aramis take a breath a little louder than the one before.  If he’s going to do this, Porthos thinks, he’s going to do it right. He stretches back, and tugs open the drawer of the bedside table and pulls the lube out, dripping it over his fingers and rubbing them against his thumb to warm it. 

With the addition of the lube Porthos’ fingers are sliding through with almost no friction, his fingers brushing over Aramis’ hole, rubbing at it.  He keeps up a steady, soft stroke over and over and over the tight ring of muscles while he turns his attention to the rest of Aramis. 

For years he’s missed the spot behind Aramis’ ear, so he bends to kiss it. He kisses the curve of Aramis’ neck, the hair just behind his temple, the nape of his neck.  He kisses the spot on Aramis’ right shoulder where four freckles come together to make a diamond.  “Hello, freckles,” he whispers into the quiet room, just the way he’d said it years ago. 

Aramis’ breath is getting faster at the same time his hole is getting more and more pressure put on it.  Porthos is gently pushing one finger just the slightest bit in, just nudging at the tightness again and again. He can’t expect Aramis to be asleep much longer; it’s a miracle he’s slept this long.  

There’s a soft, wet sound and Porthos’ finger is sliding past the muscles and into Aramis’ tight heat.  When he slides it back out there’s a soft moan from Aramis, and Porthos smiles to think that whatever, Aramis is dreaming of, it just got a lot nicer. It’s only when Porthos adds the second finger, pressing just lightly, just like he did with the first one, that Aramis finally stirs. 

Porthos can see his eyebrows come up, but his eyes don’t open as he says, mostly straight into the pillow, “P’thos?"

“Shhh,” Porthos whispers, just at Aramis’ ear. “It’s me. Just playing a little, making you feel good.  Is that nice?” 

Aramis gives a happy hum and a move that might be a nod or might be him burrowing his face further into the pillow.  Either way it’s accompanied by a soft smile, and that’s all Porthos needs to see.  Aramis keeps drifting in and out as Porthos opens him slowly, so slowly. 

It’s been years since Aramis was on the receiving end of anything bigger than a finger or two and Porthos’ cock is not small. He wants to take his time, to make sure it’s good for Aramis, but also he is enjoying being able to take his time.  He’s enjoying making it so slow and easy that Aramis can fall back asleep a little and wake with a moan when Porthos twists his wrist.

Minutes, hours, days later, Porthos decides that the way Aramis is breathing, the barely-there curve of his back as Porthos pulls his fingers out, means he’s awake enough for Porthos to ask, “Now?"

Aramis’ voice is still muffled by the pillow, but Porthos hears him breathe out a quiet, “Yeah, now.”  Porthos pushes Aramis’ leg further up, opening him even more, and rolls to cover him, pressing Aramis deeper into the bed.  He pushes his cock in the same way he pushed his fingers in, gentle and easy.  Pressing again and again, each time a millimeter deeper.  It feels like it takes forever until he’s all the way in, but when he is Porthos buries his face in Aramis’ neck as a shudder runs the length of his body.  Fuck, how could he have forgotten how good this always feels? 

He’s saved from rank sentimentality, from dripping poetry into his lover’s ear; by Aramis sleepily muttering, “Fucking _finally_ ,” with a shameless grin twitching at his mouth.

Aramis can feel Porthos smile against his skin, kissing it, he can feel the rumble of Porthos laughing against his back, but none of it feels as good as having Porthos stretched out over him, their bodies touching every place they can. 

After that it’s just the endless drag of Porthos’ cock in and out of Aramis’ hole, the push and pull of heat and skin. They fuck until Porthos is dripping sweat onto Aramis’ neck, and Aramis is curling his fingers into the sheets, bunching the fabric in his fists.  Aramis’ mouth is open, and the soft moan seems never to stop, the only change is how desperate it gets each time Porthos pulls back, as though Aramis wants to keep him inside forever. 

When Porthos comes, it’s with his mouth on Aramis’ neck, whispering Aramis’ name and declarations of love and promises of always.   He slips free and rolls Aramis on to his back, taking Aramis’ cock into his mouth.  Porthos doesn’t suck, doesn’t move his head, he just holds Aramis in his mouth, licking stripes up the underside of Aramis’ cock while his fingers twist in and out of Aramis’ open, sloppy hole.

Porthos curls his fingers, slipping them through his own come, and dragging them over just the right spot. Aramis groans; it’s the loudest sound he’s made all morning.  He sinks his fingers into Porthos’ hair, stroking and carding them through the curls as his back arches, and he comes and comes.

They trade soft, dirty kisses, Aramis licking the taste of himself from Porthos’ tongue, Porthos licking his sweat from Aramis’ neck.  They say “I love you” and “I missed you.” They kiss some more and finally, after Porthos brings them a damp cloth to wipe away the worst of the mess, they curl together again and sleep the rest of the morning away.

 

 

Dinner with Aramis’ parents and their friends isn’t until seven, so when Aramis and Porthos wake they are spoiled for choice.  Which is why, naturally, their first choice is to lie in bed for another forty-five minutes kissing each other.  It feels like, even after all these years, even with all the years Aramis now knows they have stretched in front of them, there will never be enough kisses. 

The radiator hisses and pops, the neighbors upstairs go out with their dog and come back in, the sun moves into and then out of their eyes, and all the while they are just wrapped in each other. There is no urgency to the kisses, not today, just a feeling that there is something new to them, a kind of promise that Aramis supposes has been there all along, but now that he sees it he wants to explore every angle of it. 

Eventually Porthos’ stomach starts to growl, and Aramis’ isn’t far behind.  

“We should eat,” Porthos says, the words muffled by the fact that their mouths are still pressed together.  

“Mmm, yes, there should be food.”  Another kiss.  Another two kisses. 

“Then we should put on clothes and go get some because I don’t feel like cooking.”  Porthos drags his nose along the skin behind Aramis’ ear, breathing in the smell of his skin. 

“But then I would - yes, right there, oh that’s nice — but then I would have to get up.  Maybe you could go out and get something for us." 

Porthos rears back, amused.  “Maybe I could go out and get something for us?" 

Aramis’ eyes are enormous and without a trace of guile. “That would be very—“ He cuts off with a yelp as Porthos gets his feet against Aramis’ thighs and puts his full weight behind shoving Aramis on to the floor. 

On his way to the bathroom, Porthos looks down at Aramis, staring up at him from the carpet, pitiful and confused.  “Right, Puss-in-Boots, try that on someone new; it hasn’t worked on me in a decade." 

He walks away, tossing a smirk over his shoulder. 

Porthos has a favorite café, nothing fancy, but the food is beyond compare, and he takes Aramis there for huge bowls of warm soup and chunks of crusty bread.  They spend a couple of hours poking through grocery stalls and finding supplies so that Aramis can make breakfast in the morning.

“This going out thing involves far too much clothing, my dear Porthos. I’m determined to spend as many hours of my visit as possible looking at you naked.” Porthos can’t argue his logic. 

 

 

Still wiped out from the trip, Aramis dozes on the couch for an hour or so while Porthos deals with work emails.  He wakes to the feeling of Porthos’ lips on his forehead and opens his eyes with a slow blink.  

Porthos bumps his nose against Aramis’ and smiles.  “Hi.  How was your nap?" 

Aramis indulges in an extravagant stretch, arms over his head and his feet lolling over the arm of the sofa.  “’S good.  Time’s it?" 

Porthos kisses him, light and soft, and it feels like a promise.  “It’s just gone half five; we need to get dressed.”  He must spot the twinkle growing in Aramis’ eye, because he follows that up with, “Don’t give me that look, I’m not dealing with your mother’s disappointed face if we’re late."

“Since when is my mother’s disappointed face enough to keep you from wanting to be naked and sweaty with me?" 

There’s another kiss and Porthos is grabbing Aramis’ hands and dragging him to standing.  “Nineteen ninety-nine. Roughly. Separate showers or we’ll never get out of here." 

Aramis steps out of his shower to find Porthos at the sink, trimming his beard.  It’s such a perfectly intimate moment, and it hits Aramis again, this is his life.  He gets this life. He gets Porthos. Aramis presses a kiss to Porthos’ shoulder and stands beside him at the sink. 

From his toiletry kit, Aramis pulls his shaving cream and his razor. Only one of them is allowed to be scruffy for work these days, and Aramis knows that a day and a half of growth isn’t a look that’s good on him.  Four days? Sure. A week? Even better. But now he just looks tired. 

He’s uncapping the shaving cream when he turns to see Porthos smiling fondly at him.  “What?" 

“Nothing,” Porthos says, shaking his head. “Just… I missed this.”  He reaches for the can. “Let me."

There is something about Porthos spreading the foam over his face that’s almost more intimate and personal than all the sex they’ve ever had.  With the razor in his hand, Porthos says, “Wish I still had the straight razor I used to use in Bayonne. Sharp enough to split an eyelash.  This works too, though.  Any chance to get to put my hands all over you, eh?”  

Aramis is staring at Porthos’ mouth as he talks, and god those dimples are enormous. He’s noticing things he’d never allowed himself to see before. Porthos is his now, he wants to memorize every part, from the way his nose wrinkles when he laughs to the lines at the corners of his eyes that don’t disappear all the way when the laughing is over.

Porthos drags the razor down and over his face in long, slow strokes, pausing at the end of each one to rinse the razor under the tap.  “The thing I learned, took me far too long to figure it out, too, is that you really do have to go with the grain.”   He hooks a finger under Aramis’ chin so he can pull the razor along the hollow below his jaw and down over his neck.  “You try to shave against the hair growth and you’re signing up for pain." 

One finger under Aramis’ jaw is enough to have him tilting his head to the side so Porthos can shave the other half.  “I’d _probably_ still kiss you if you had razor burn all over your face, but let’s not find out, yeah?”  He smiles down into Aramis’ eyes, and Aramis wonders how many more years that smile will make his heart stutter.  All of them, probably.  “Lips in,” Porthos says and when Aramis sucks his lips into his mouth Porthos drags the razor down the skin under his nose, over the dip in his chin.

He twists Aramis’ face back and forth, checking for missed patches and cleaning up the ones he finds.  Once he’s happy with the results Porthos wipes a warm, wet cloth over Aramis’ face, cleaning off the remaining trace of shaving foam and stroking the skin.  “Ah,” he says.  “Missed a spot.”  He noses under the corner of Aramis’ jaw and presses a soft kiss to the thumping pulse just under the skin.  “Gorgeous,” he whispers, and Aramis is sure he isn’t talking about the shaving job. 

Aramis rests their foreheads together, smiling and rolling his head until he can drag the length of his nose against Porthos’. “Lucky,” he says. 

Porthos bumps their noses together and kisses Aramis, just once, on the mouth.  “Both of us."

Clean, now, and groomed to Porthos’ satisfaction, Aramis goes to get dressed.  When he looks up from tying his shoes, he gets his first glimpse of Porthos in his clothing for the evening, and it is enough to stop his breath. 

Porthos’ suit is a deceptively simple looking three-button, single-breasted affair with a narrow notched collar, but it’s tailored to within an inch of its life.  Aramis first sees it from behind and the way it emphasizes the difference in width between Porthos’ shoulders and waist makes his mouth go dry. 

How? How in the world did Aramis ever think he could live the rest of his life without touching this man again?  He walks up and wraps his arms around Porthos from behind; palms pressed to his chest, and just leans his forehead against the back of Porthos’ neck.  “I love you."

Porthos brings his hands up to cover Aramis’ and heaves a happy sigh. “I love you, too. Put some clothes on, or I’m going to tell them it’s your fault that we showed up an hour into dinner." 

Aramis can’t seem to keep from touching Porthos. They hold hands in the elevator and Aramis strokes the shoulders of Porthos’ jacket when they get out of the car at the hotel, just to “straighten it.” In the elevator on the way up to his parents’ room Aramis can’t resist any longer and kisses Porthos, slow and deep. 

Carolina insists on taking pictures of them as though they were leaving for a formal school dance. There are more pictures of the two of them with Carolina, pictures of the two of them with Mathieu. When those are finished, Mathieu insists that they want a picture with both parents and ‘both of our boys.’  It takes Porthos a second, even after so many years, to compose his face. 

Mathieu fiddles with the camera, trying to find the timer setting and Porthos steps over to help him. Aramis stops for a second to take in the sight of Porthos, eyes smiling, bent over the camera with his father, their lack of personal space the product of so long in each other’s lives.  Aramis finds his throat growing tight. Swallowing, he feels his mother slip her hand into his.  He turns to smile at her. 

“I’m so in love with him, Mama,” he says, quiet enough that only she can hear. 

Her answering smile is indulgent and fond. “I know." 

Aramis frowns a little.  “I mean--."

She squeezes his hand. “I know, Aramis."

He rubs his thumb over her knuckles.  “How long have you known?" 

Carolina reaches up to brush some imaginary lint from his jacket and then strokes his cheekbone with her thumb.  “I dare say since before either of you knew. He is like your sun; you move around him.”  She kisses his cheek. “You are not excused from giving me grandchildren."

He looks again at Porthos talking to his father, and all at once it is like the air has been sucked from the room.  This is it, he thinks, he will never have to nervously introduce his beloved to his parents and hope they get along.  He will never have to worry that his parents do not think his love is good enough for him. That his mother knows, that she approves and trusts Porthos to take care of him, trusts Aramis to take care of Porthos, is enough to make him want to take deep breaths until the room stops spinning. 

Aramis doesn’t think he could have truly loved someone his parents didn’t care for, but his parents have loved Porthos as long as Aramis has.  Years upon years of birthday cards, the train tickets, family dinners that always included an invitation for Porthos even when he didn’t come. He has been their second son from almost the first night Aramis brought him to dinner. 

He never knew how much his parents’ blessing meant to him until he realized he would never have to ask for it. 

They finally get the timer working and when the flash bursts Aramis is smiling with all the joy in his heart. He must look a fool, he thinks, but he doesn’t care. 

With the pictures finished, it’s time for dinner.  They make small talk until the elevator arrives, at which point Aramis grabs Porthos’ hand and says, “I need a quiet word with Porthos, we’ll meet you down there." 

Porthos’ face is as confused as Aramis’ parents, but they head for the lobby and Porthos lets Aramis drag him back down the hall in the direction of the room.  Halfway there is a door labeled “Ice” and Aramis pushes it open, crowding Porthos into the tiny space, his back to the wall. 

“Aramis what—" 

His hands at Porthos’ hips, Aramis says, “You.  You talking to my parents and listening to my father go on about his camera.  You kissing my mother’s cheek and letting her make up a birthday for you. You being part of our family almost since the day we met, because my mother could tell we’d never be apart.  Just... Just you. You’re perfect, and you’re mine and I need to have my mouth on you immediately."

He’s fumbling with Porthos’ trousers, pulling them open and tugging at the zipper.  “And that fucking suit.  Do you have any idea what you look like in that suit? Fuck, it’s probably a sin.” With one hand, Aramis reaches down inside Porthos’ boxers and wraps his hands around Porthos’ rapidly thickening cock.   “Think you can be quiet?” he asks as he squeezes.

Porthos’ “Fuck!” is almost a shout and Aramis cocks his eyebrow. 

“Thank you, that was eloquently answered.”  He tugs off his tie, rolling it up and tucking it into Porthos’ mouth.  “Now we won’t have to worry about that, and I’ll be able to keep my ears open for anyone who might be coming.”  Aramis shoves at the waistband of Porthos’ boxer briefs, pushing them down over his hips, pulling at the elastic until Porthos’ cock is out in the open air, pulsing. 

Aramis drops to his haunches, even in the heat of the moment he’s not scuffing the knees on this suit.  He wraps his hand around Porthos and gives a few long strokes.  Looking up he says, “Or maybe you’d rather I didn’t keep an ear out.  Maybe you’d like it if someone came in here and saw us like this, saw that I think you’re so fucking gorgeous I can’t keep my mouth off of you for more than a few hours." 

Porthos’ whine at those words turns into a groan as Aramis wraps his lips around the head and licks at the underside. 

As blowjobs go, it’s not his best.  It’s fast and awkward, and Aramis’ knees start to hurt about three minutes in, so he’s a little distracted.  He’s at entirely the wrong angle to get Porthos as deep as he wants, so he has to settle for sucking enthusiastically at the head and essentially jerking Porthos off into his mouth.  

Porthos’ hands are scrabbling at the walls and from his vantage point Aramis can see his chest and belly heave as he pants and groans and shouts behind the makeshift gag.  Porthos’ sleeves have ridden up so Aramis can see his forearms flex as his fingers try to grip at the wall.  Aramis shifts his gaze and looks directly up at Porthos, straight into his eyes. 

With only the warning of his increasingly desperate sounds around the tie, Porthos empties into Aramis’ mouth.  Aramis hums happily and swallows it down, pausing after he pulls off to give an exaggerated wipe at the corner of his lips with his thumb and suck it clean.  He tucks Porthos back into his underwear and zips up Porthos’ trousers.  Porthos handles the button himself as Aramis teases his tie from behind Porthos’ teeth. 

“I’ll just…” and he tucks it into his pocket.  “Ready?” he asks, and by the look Porthos gives him Aramis isn’t sure if he’s about to get throttled or kissed.

It’s kissed, in the end, Porthos licking the taste of himself from Aramis’ tongue during the elevator ride to the lobby.  When they hear the bell and the doors slide open Aramis strides out as if he owns the place, a huge grin, and no shame.

“We were getting worried,” Carolina says, looping her arm through his and leading them into the restaurant.  “Is everything alright?"

“Everything is perfect, Mama,” he says, patting her hand and snatching a mint from the table by the door. 

 

The dinner is a loud, happy affair filled with old friends and old jokes and Carolina introduces Aramis and Porthos to everyone as “My son and his boyfriend, my other son.”  The first time she does it they both have to excuse themselves for a minute and pretend to have an intense conversation while they get themselves back under control

In the middle of dessert, Aramis feels Porthos reach under the table to take his hand, and there’s a rush of warmth, of safety and love, that radiates up his arm and out through his chest.  He wonders whether they will ever have a dinner like this for themselves; friends crowded around a table to celebrate the strength of their love.  He finds he loves the idea.

After dinner, Aramis says goodbye to his parents.  They’re due on a plane the next morning, and he promises with everything in him that he will see them before another five years have passed.  Porthos makes the same promises, says he’ll drag Aramis for a visit or they’ll find a place to meet.  A family holiday, Aramis thinks, and a burst of hysterical laughter bubbles up his throat.

 

 

They make love that night, face-to-face, achingly slow and desperately fast by turns.  Each time one of them gets close the other backs off.  They chase after their pleasure and hold each other on the edge. 

His mother was wrong.  Porthos is not his sun. They are a binary system, moving around and across each other, unable to pull apart and, in the end, expanding into the space between them until nothing is left but heat, and collisions and light that can be seen galaxies away. 

When they sleep that night, it’s with Aramis curled behind Porthos, one arm draped possessively across his chest and his nose against Porthos’ spine. They shift and roll over the course of the night, but they are always, always touching.

 

 

Aramis’ plane leaves early the next evening and they both agree that going out will keep them from just moping and feeling miserable about their impending separation, and that a walk through the park is just the perfect thing.  It’s freezing, of course, and threatening rain, but they stroll like it’s a summer day.  Aramis cups his hand over Porthos’ neck as they walk, squeezing it briefly then weaving his fingers up into Porthos’ hair. 

"How do we make this work?”  Aramis asks. "I'm still in a warzone, and you’re still being flirted with by women who think you’re sex in a suit." 

Porthos laughs and pulls Aramis’ hand from his neck so he can hold it in his own.  “You keep forgetting; I’ve been making this work for years. The answer is, we just do. We talk as often as we can; we tell each other the truth.  We remember that no matter what else, no matter whom else, nothing and no one will ever touch this.  And in a year or so, if you can keep yourself from getting killed, you’ll come home to me again.” 

He’s trying to keep it light, but there’s an edge of desperation in Porthos’ words, and Aramis knows that Porthos worries about him every day.  He remembers the clenching dread the morning of the bombing in Baqouba and wishes he could make promises, wishes he could say nothing will happen.  He does the best he can. 

“Nothing will ever keep me safer than the promise of coming home to you." 

That afternoon Aramis tells Porthos not to come into the airport with him. “I couldn’t- I couldn’t walk through the checkpoint if you were still standing there. I can stare down a grenade launcher, but Porthos, I’m not strong enough for that. 

Porthos says, “You want me just to drive away while you’re walking through the door.” It’s not a question. 

Aramis nods and Porthos swears, dropping his head to the steering wheel.  

“Aramis you can’t fucking…”  He sighs and reaches over, gripping Aramis’ hand so tight the tips of his fingers go white.   “At least let me get out and hug you, I’m not saying goodbye across the fucking shifter knob." 

They hug for long enough that the airport police threaten to tow Porthos’ car twice.  They kiss long enough for the patrol car to come around a third time but on that stop the officer just shakes his head and drives on. Porthos and Aramis don’t even notice him. 

“I love you." 

“I love you." 

He’s been saying those words to Porthos for years, but somehow it’s always good, always perfect. It feels even better, Aramis thinks, now that he’s not holding anything back. He’s speaking his whole heart. His hands are fisted in Porthos’ coat, and he knows he’s going to have to let go soon. 

Porthos, of course, saves him.  He pulls Aramis’ fingers from his coat and kisses the knuckles.  He puts Aramis’ bag in his hands and says, “Come home."

Aramis does not watch him drive away.

 

Sitting back in his seat on the plane, Aramis tallies up the days until his contract is over. It’s more than he had thought, but it’s not forever.  Forever is what he gets if he makes it through. He starts to count down.

Five hundred and one.

 

 

 


	14. Thirty-one - backhanding the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They stand for a few seconds, looking at each other before Aramis comes the last few steps and drops his forehead to Porthos’ chest. He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops at the sides of Porthos’ waist and says, “I’m finished. I’m finished there.”
> 
> Porthos drops his head to press a kiss to Aramis’ hair. “Yeah, you are.” He drapes his arms around Aramis’ back, holding him lightly but with a promise that he’ll never let go. “Now you’re all mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could pretend I'm not sad about this, but you'd all know I was lying. My love, forever, to Cee who started me on this path and has been with me every step of the way, who let me play in her sandbox so long it became our sandbox. All the hugs to Dee for menacing me perfectly, and to Nat for nudges in all the right places, and to Liz without whom I would still be staring at the conversation in the last chapter and slapping at my keyboard trying to make it work.
> 
> To everyone who cheered me on, commented, left kudos, listened to me wank about it on tumblr, everything: I try to reach for the right words to tell you how much it means and all I come up with is that line from Much Ado: "I were but little happy, if I could say how much." There will never be words enough to thank you.
> 
> There are a few small notes at the end about a couple of liberties I've taken, and I've put the entirety of the poem that inspired the title (Carol Ann Duffy's 'Hour') at the beginning, just because.

 

_Love’s time’s beggar, but even a single hour,_  
_bright as a dropped coin, makes love rich._  
_We find an hour together, spend it not on flowers_  
_or wine, but the whole of the summer sky and a grass ditch._

_For thousands of seconds we kiss; your hair_  
_like treasure on the ground; the Midas light_  
_turning your limbs to gold. Time slows, for here_  
_we are millonaires, backhanding the night_

_so nothing dark will end our shining hour,_  
_no jewel hold a candle to the cuckoo spit_  
_hung from the blade of grass at your ear,_  
_no chandelier or spotlight see you better lit_

_than here. Now. Time hates love, wants love poor,_  
_but love spins gold, gold, gold from straw._

_************_

 

_Twenty-six_ , Aramis thinks as he crosses another day off his mental countdown. He’s staring out the window at the rest of the vehicles in the convoy and being glad he has something else to think about besides how his team is grumbling that it’s been almost a year since any member of this unit of paratroopers has done a jump.

Aramis understands their gripe. He misses the wind. He misses the sun on his face and the wind through his fingers and that sudden calm when the canopy opens. He misses none of it as much as he misses Porthos, though, so that’s where his mind is right now. He’s not cursing the sand or the tedium; he’s not even dreaming of the wind on his face, he’s back on the sofa in that flat in Paris.

The higher-level officers are having a strategy and planning session; the rest of them have been left to bake in the heat, so Aramis pulls out his phone. He’s expecting that he’ll get Porthos’ voicemail and end up leaving a slightly lewd but very heartfelt message about the things he’d be doing if he were there. He is _not_ expecting to hear Porthos’ intoxicatingly sleep-heavy voice saying his name in a way that makes it clear there’s a lazy smile on his face. 

“Aramis."

His knees go out a little. “Hey gorgeous, I’m sorry I woke you." 

“‘Sokay, you didn’t know. We’re on for the next few days, so we’ve got a bit of time to ourselves first. Got to spend it however we choose. I chose poorly." 

Aramis puts his hand over his eyes, as much to help him visualize Porthos warm and naked in bed as to block out the sun. “What did you do, my love?"

“Tried to keep up with Athos, didn’t I?”  His voice is slightly muffled, and Aramis suspects he’s dropped his face back into the pillow. 

“Someday I’m going to meet this Athos of yours and I’m going to give him a stern talking to about the state of your liver." 

“Heh. I’d like to hear how that goes; you might actually— oh!” Porthos’ voice suddenly sounds much more alert, and Aramis feels a little pang of loss at not hearing that deep, sleep-drunk tone anymore. “Meant to talk to you about that." 

“About meeting Athos?”  Aramis asks. 

“In a manner of speaking. I know we haven’t talked much about what you’d do after you get out, we’re both way too focused on you _getting out_ , but I was thinking…" his voice trails off. 

Aramis gives him a second and then nudges him. “Yes?" 

“I’m not saying it’s something you would do for the rest of your life, but would you like for me to put in a word for you at TS? It’d be something to keep you busy, keep you from dipping into your savings while you figure out what you _would_ like to do." 

Aramis hopes the smile comes through in his voice. “And I’d get to see you during the day." 

There’s that gorgeous rumbling chuckle that sends prickles down Aramis’ spine. “No guarantee of that, but at the very least I’d get to sit next to you at the all-hands meeting and get a little squeeze in while you’re at the coffee machine." 

“Tsk tsk, inappropriate workplace touching, du Vallon. What will Human Resources say?" 

“I imagine that if I tell them how much you like me touching you, then they’ll just ask for pictures." 

Aramis laughs loud and long enough that the supply officer looks up from checking in boxes to see what’s so funny. With a wave, Aramis sends the guy back to his clipboard and crates and says to Porthos, “I think I’d like that. You putting in a word for me, I mean, not the groping at the coffee maker. Though I doubt I’d turn that down if it were on offer." 

Porthos’ voice is heavy with sweetness, “Yeah?" 

“Yeah. Do it." 

“You’ll need to submit an application online, just your skills and recent experience and a few personal details. You can use my place as an address. I’ll send you a link to the site." 

Aramis can see the _capitaine_ coming back over from the command tent and knows that his hour of leisure is up. “You do that; I have to get back on the road, I think. I’ll speak with you soon?" 

“Try and stop me. I love you." 

“Go back to sleep. I love you." 

Aramis has still not gotten over how much more those words mean to him now. They’ve always meant home and family and an unbreakable bond. Now they mean holding hands while walking through the market and sleepy mornings in bed together, in _their_ bed together. Now those words mean forever. The idea of forever with Porthos has not stopped making his heart skip a beat.

 

The next time Aramis is back on base and near a computer, he pulls up the link Porthos has sent him and fills out the application. Tréville Sécurité has been around forever; they’re the benchmark by which other private security firms are judged; discrete, skilled and a with a terrifying attention to detail. So, Aramis knows better than to think that Porthos’ job is as cushy as it looks from the outside. He’s heard all the details from Porthos himself, but he still can’t help but hope that they’ll be able to work on the occasional job together. 

Recent work history is easy enough; he just gives his Legion unit and their last few postings. He’s able to fill all of the available lines for “weapons skills” without even trying very hard, and the “other skills” portion reminds him just how much effort and time the Legion has put into making him lethal. The last section is for references. Aramis lists Porthos of course, and then puts down Houdet, as well as Roget and his current _capitaine._  

He sends it off with a wish and a prayer and goes to the mess tent to eat. That night, curled on his cot, Aramis dreams of being in Porthos’ flat, getting ready for work together and tying Porthos’ tie. He dreams that when work is over Porthos uses that tie to lash Aramis’ hands together and then fucks him against the kitchen windows. He wakes up at dawn in a sweat and stops to cross another day off his mental tally. _Twenty-five_. 

Three days later Aramis receives a politely worded reply from the recruiting director at Tréville Sécurité. His qualifications are superb, they say, his references are impeccable. They understand that he is nearing his discharge date and would welcome the chance to speak with him upon his return to Paris. There’s the name of the department head Aramis should contact once he’s discharged. 

Aramis forwards it to Porthos before going to dinner. He’s taken his book with him, but he’s not reading. He’s keeping it open in front of him so that the other men will leave him be, he needs some time to think. This is the most Aramis has ever planned his life. He’d known where he would work and live when he got to San Sébastian, but not how long he’d say or what that life would bring. There had been the plan to come to Aubagne and sign up for the Legion, but no sense that he’d actually make it or what he’d be doing if he got his five-year contract. With this, if it works, he knows where he will live, the pattern of his weeks, what will fill his days, who will fill his nights.

He’d expected that this kind of certainty and sense of commitment would make him feel jumpy or unsure, but it’s entirely the opposite. The idea of sinking into a life with Porthos, a life with some guarantees and givens, fills him with joy. Perhaps it’s that it _is_ Porthos at the other end of this journey, the only thing in Aramis’ life that he’s ever truly wanted for as long as he could have it. Then too, perhaps he’s just spent so many years unsure and unsettled, so many years not knowing if the next day will bring deserts or mountains or bullets aimed at his head, that he’s reached a point where he cherishes a future that can be known.

At some point in the last eight years Aramis has come to understand the difference between excitement and fear, a difference he hadn’t even acknowledged existed when he was first learning to jump out into thin air with a silk bag on his back. He thinks that perhaps he’s finished being professionally terrified to quite this degree. 

When he’s finished with his meal, Aramis closes his book, still on the same page he opened it to, and goes back to his tent. He takes a minute to look around at the teams around him as he walks through camp. Some of these guys are good kids, they’ll grow into fine soldiers and chances are good they won’t die kneeling in a pool of their own blood while their team leader looks on, but Aramis is finished gambling with his own team, his own sanity, like that. 

As he pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, shivering against the desert night, he ticks another day off his tally. _Twenty-two._

 

His discharge day, when it comes, is utterly unremarkable. Two days before, he packs his rucksack with his books and his spare uniform shirts and trousers; he shoves the books on top and pats his top pocket to reassure himself his mobile is in there. He shakes hands with his team; there are back-slapping hugs from a few, and sticks his head into the officer’s mess for a moment to say goodbye to his _capitaine_. Then, as though it were any other Friday, he strolls through camp over to the motor pool.

Unlike the other Fridays, he doesn’t check out a truck and head out on patrol. Instead, he lets the Ukrainian kid (why is it always a Ukrainian kid in the motor pool?) drive him out to the airstrip. There’s an American C-130 that’s heading to Rome with a jump seat available, and before he can spare a second to wonder if he’ll miss Afghanistan, the base is growing small out his window and the clouds are coming closer.

In Rome, Aramis barely has time to stretch his legs before boarding his flight to Corsica. A combination of airport shuttle busses and taxis gets him to the garrison in Calvi just before sunset on Sunday, and Aramis falls face first into his assigned bunk and doesn’t move until _appeler_ is called at six the next morning.

He does spare a minute to wonder if he’ll miss this, the congregation of every man on base and the way it reminds them all of their collective purpose, of their camaraderie and fellowship. During this time, the Legion truly is their country and the songs they sing together do not seem at all ridiculous. Even still, Aramis decides, he’d rather be in Paris missing this than in Calvi missing Porthos. 

There is a day of pre-discharge interviews, of checklists and formalities and returning his FAMAS to the armory. They make him count out the ammunition, as though he might have shot someone between Afghanistan and Calvi, and they will need to account for it in the ledgers. He has to sit through an extensive lecture on his benefits; he’s turned down the offer of French citizenship that comes with all honorable discharges so he gets to skip that presentation, but there’s still a long discussion of the available resources he can avail himself of and he tries to focus through all of it. 

The last thing that happens is the exit physical. Aramis is standing on the scale and realizing that he will never again have a day to cross off his tally. He decides to give this last day a tally of its own. _Zero._ They take his blood pressure, draw blood, test his heart rate, he loses track after that but he smiles to think that if all goes well he’ll end up doing an intake physical soon. 

At the end of Aramis’ physical, the base commander, Minières, comes into the doctor’s office, just in time for Aramis to be doing up the top few buttons of his shirt. He knew he’d be getting a goodbye visit from a superior officer, but this is unexpected. There’s a brief discussion of his exemplary service record, how proud they are to have had him in their numbers, how much he will be missed. Aramis doubts that last bit until the commander lowers his voice, takes his beret off and says, “I read the reports from N’djamena. I lost three of my close-quarters team in Zaire. They tell you it’ll fade, that you’ll stop seeing it at night…" 

“I still see it,” Aramis says. 

Minières bunches his beret in his fist. “You always will, less often as the years pass, but you always will. I just wanted you to know; you are not the only one who still sees it; you will never be the only one. Will you have someone who understands?" 

Aramis nods. He will have Porthos, who will always understand. He will have Fatima, who was there to see the aftermath. He will not be alone. 

Minières nods in return. “Then you are as ready as you can be. Good luck, d’Herblay.”  He extends his hand, and Aramis shakes it, firm and honest. 

“Thank you, Sir.” Minières leaves, and that’s it. He’s finished. Aramis takes his two bags, all he owns in the world, and takes a cab to the airport. He’s splurging with a plane trip to Paris instead of the ferry and the train, figuring years upon years of not spending his money on anything more than taking Fatima to dinner and the hotel room in San Sébastian has earned him this indulgence. 

As the taxi is pulling away from the base gates, Aramis takes a moment to look back. He looks at the well-groomed garden beds, the pristine paint job, the sea in the distance, and know that it will be weeks, months perhaps, before his body stops waking him at dawn for _appeler_ and before he stops humming Legion songs under his breath as he works. These things are to be expected, but his life here is over now. It hits him again, as it has more than a few times in the last five hundred days, that the new life ahead of him is everything he might ever have dreamed, and that he still isn’t aware of all the goodness it holds. 

Aramis wonders if there will be a day when he wakes up next to Porthos in _their_ flat and isn’t grateful for everything he has been given, all the grace in his life. He sincerely hopes not.

 

Porthos is waiting just outside the security checkpoint, and Aramis thinks he’s never seen the rest of his life standing in front of him like this and god, he could really get used to it. The smile on his face is probably exactly as soft and sentimental as he thinks it is when he says, “Hi." 

Smiling back, Porthos says, “Hi yourself." 

They stand for a few seconds, looking at each other before Aramis comes the last few steps and drops his forehead to Porthos’ chest. He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops at the sides of Porthos’ waist and says, “I’m finished. I’m finished there.”

Porthos drops his head to press a kiss to Aramis’ hair. “Yeah, you are.”  He drapes his arms around Aramis’ back, holding him lightly but with a promise that he’ll never let go. “Now you’re all mine.” 

Aramis laughs and looks up to find Porthos’ face so close it seems impossible not to kiss it. He doesn’t resist. Between kisses, Aramis says, “All yours,” then twines his arms around Porthos’ neck. He can feel Porthos’ growl as much as he hears it.

“You’re going to get us arrested for public indecency.”  Porthos pulls back and waits for Aramis to meet his eyes before asking, “You ready to go home?"

 “Yes,” Aramis says, grinning so hard his face hurts. “Let’s go home."

Porthos frowns for just a second. “I never asked, I just assumed. If you want, I’ll help you find a place-“ Aramis puts one palm firmly over Porthos’ mouth. 

“Porthos? Let’s go _home_.”  He can feel Porthos smile under his hand as he nods.

When they arrive at the flat, Aramis waits while Porthos digs in his pockets for something. He holds his hand out to Aramis. “Here, you do the honors."

In Porthos’ hand is a key. Aramis’ key. To their flat. Realizing he’s standing there with his mouth open, Aramis snaps it shut and takes the key, unlocking the door and walking across the threshold. Before Porthos can walk through the doorway on his own, Aramis fists his hands in Porthos’ t-shirt and pulls him in for a fierce kiss. “Thank you. I love you." 

After the last visit, there are very few places in this flat that they haven’t kissed, but it still feels special when Aramis drags Porthos inside and presses him up against the back of the door, pouring all the love in his heart into the place where their lips meet. It’s still special when he straddles Porthos’ lap on the sofa and covers his neck in kisses while he rides Porthos’ cock. It feels like every time before, but it also feels like the first time for the rest of their lives.

 

Aramis barely sleeps the first night. He’d expected that being next to Porthos would have the usual effect and he’d be out cold. Instead, he wakes up several times and wanders through the flat, looking out the windows. He crawls back into bed each time, presses himself up against Porthos just to feel Porthos’ arms slip around him, and thinks _I live here, now_.

 

The morning after he arrives in Paris, Aramis calls the number he’d been given in his last email from TS and schedules an in-person interview for noon the next day. 

Porthos has a shift starting at 2, and he’ll need to check out his sidearm before that, but he’s got the morning free. He spends it helping Aramis get ready. Porthos vetoes the first two ties Aramis suggests and ends up handing over one of his own, saying, “Trust me, the blue is good.”  Aramis would never have expected Porthos to be the one with the fashion sense, but he can’t argue that the blue tie works. 

Aramis showers before he dresses, Porthos helps with that part as well. It takes far longer than a shower should, thanks in no small part to Porthos’ special good-luck-at-your-interview bathing technique. Porthos helps him shave again, both of them agreeing that this is going to be the last time for the foreseeable future. Aramis says, “I’m going to look rakish and dashing with a beard; I’m sure of it." 

“Yes, of course,” says Porthos, patting at Aramis’ skin with lotion and wiping away the last of the shaving foam. “You’ll be able to pull wherever you go and won’t that be a nice change for you.”  He’s so deadpan it takes Aramis a second to pick up the joke, but when he does he puts his arms around Porthos’ waist and laughs into his neck. 

“I love you." 

“And I love you, but if you keep breathing on my neck like that you’re gonna be late to your interview, and I’m gonna to be late to my shift. Then Athos will kill me, and you’ll be unemployed and single. Don’t want that, do you?”  He squeezes Aramis’ waist and gives him a little shake. “C’mon, I’ll make you breakfast 

Breakfast turns out to be toast and coffee, but they eat it in _their_ kitchen, so it’s perfect. 

They stand with their shoulders pressed together in the elevator on the way up to the offices and just before the doors open Porthos kisses Aramis and whispers, “Good luck." 

Aramis gives his name to the receptionist and is shown into a small conference room. A few minutes later, he’s joined by a man who resembles nothing so much as a cartoon devil. He’s short and stocky; his beard is waxed to a vicious point just below his chin, but his smile is broad and friendly, and his handshake is warm. He introduces himself as Georges Souza; he’s the director of Close Security for the entire firm. Aramis has heard Porthos talk about Souza in tones ranging from deep respect to complete awe. 

It’s at that moment Aramis realizes he is not here for your average HR interview. He’s not being vaguely considered for a position somewhere in the firm; his prospective boss is sizing him up for a position in a specific department. For some reason, this relaxes Aramis. He doesn’t have to prove that he can be an asset to the organization; he needs to convince _this man_ that he can keep people safe. 

They talk for almost an hour. Souza asks for details about recent missions; Aramis tells him everything he can. He asks Aramis how comfortable he feels about modifying standard operating procedures to reflect current events or recent experience. Aramis tells him about rewriting the IED detection training; he talks about the new situational reconnaissance techniques they’d introduced after N’djamena. Unexpectedly, Aramis tell him the whole story of both Afghanistan and Chad, of all the lives lost and all the lives he tried to keep safe after. 

Souza’s expression doesn’t show sympathy, but there’s a softening of the lines around his eyes and Aramis knows that this man understands never wanting to lose anyone again if it can be helped. 

“I spoke to your commanding officers; they had nothing but glowing reports about your service. Of course, you also come highly recommended by one of my most valued team members. Given how recent your discharge was I expect the physical evaluation and firearms skills test to be mostly formalities, but we do need to have them. If you’re interested in moving forward with this, you can let Mireille at the front desk know when would be best for you to come back in." 

Aramis smiles, he can’t help it. “I would like that very much, Sir. I’m afraid I’m not cut out for keeping the sofa warm and watching television." 

Souza stands, collecting his papers as he smiles back at Aramis. “No, I imagine not. Though it is incredible what heights of sloth one can reach with the right cable package.” Aramis lets out a startled bark of laughter and Souza’s eyes twinkle back at him. “We'll look forward to seeing you again, then. It will take a day to run the necessary background checks before we can allow you on the range, but perhaps if you’re free on Friday?" 

Aramis stands as well, extending his hand to shake. “Friday it is." 

“Friday,” Souza says shaking Aramis’ hand and taking his leave.

 From the front desk, after letting Mireille know his availability, Aramis texts Porthos to say that he’s finished, that the talk with Souza went well. The phone rings almost immediately after he hits ‘send’.

“You met with Souza straight away?” Porthos asks. 

“I did.” Aramis pushes the button for the elevator. “He’s funnier than you expect he’s going to be.”  

“He’s great. Don’t let that smile fool you, though. That little bastard can kill you three dozen different ways using nothing but the things in his office.”  There’s a muffled voice in the background and Porthos laughs. “Athos says not to forget the three ways he could kill you with the office itself." 

The lift doors open and Aramis steps in. “Tell Athos I say hello. I’m in the lift; if I lose you, I’ll call you back." 

Porthos passes Aramis’ greeting on to Athos and gets another muffled response. “He says to save it until you see him in person; he’s part of the team evaluating your PT test and weapons skills." 

This is not, strictly speaking, true. Athos isn’t actually part of that team because officially the entire evaluation is being done by Souza. He is, however, the person with the right of first refusal regarding Aramis’ team status if he’s hired. It would be an exaggeration to say that Athos stamped Aramis’ application with “TEAM THREE” as soon as it arrived, but not _much_ of an exaggeration. (In reality he’d sent a politely worded email to Souza, but it amounted to the same thing.)  Athos is attending Aramis’ skills demonstrations to ensure that no one else gets even the slightest idea that they should throw their teams’ hat into the ring. 

“Tell him I look forward to it,” Aramis says. “Now get back to work. I’m going to do some shopping so we can have something besides toast for breakfast tomorrow. I love you." 

Porthos’ voice drops an octave, a sound meant only for Aramis’ ears. “I love you, too." 

The shopping is a wild success. Breakfast the next morning is poached eggs and fresh berries… and toast.

 

When Friday comes Aramis slides into his tracksuit bottoms, a white t-shirt he’s fairly certain is free of holes and stains, and his trainers, and finds his own way to the offices. The gym is on the fourth floor; Souza walks him there and explains what they’ll need for the evaluation. He wishes Aramis luck and goes to lean against the wall next to a man roughly Aramis’ own age with a full beard and piercing blue eyes. 

Aramis sees several other employees in the gym doing suspiciously slow reps on various machines and realizes more than just more than just the bosses are sizing him up. He takes a minute to be thankful that Porthos isn’t here and watching; Aramis would have a hard time not showing off and that’s not the face he’s trying to present to this firm. 

(Porthos is absolutely here, and he’s absolutely watching. He’s tucked himself behind a supporting pillar near the back of the room; from there he can see everything in the mirrored wall behind the free weights.) 

Aramis runs three miles, does a dozen pull-ups and a series of timed sprints. He thinks if they really wanted to test his on-the-job fitness he’d be doing all this in his interview suit, but he’s so very glad that’s not the case. He doesn’t notice the woman on the elliptical machine stumble when he starts his pull-ups, but everyone else does and no one blames her. By this point, Aramis is sweating enough that his shirt has begun to stick to his skin, and it’s becoming slightly transparent. Porthos nearly drops a dumbbell on his foot. 

When the physical exam is over, Souza introduces him to the bearded, blue-eyed man. Athos looks both exactly like Aramis had imagined, but not a thing like he been expecting. From Porthos’ descriptions, Aramis had formed a general idea of what Athos might look like, but the intensity of his stare, the firmness of his handshake, the warmth of his voice, these are all a surprise. Together the three of them take the lift to the weapons range in the basement. 

Porthos ducks into the building’s security office; the rest of the Close Security department not currently on shift joins him. Together they convince the building security guards to pipe the feed from the weapons range cameras to a laptop, and everyone gathers around to watch.

Aramis is unaware of his audience, but it would make no difference. He picks up the .9mm Walther PPQ and empties the clip into the paper target. When he’s finished there’s a hole the size of a 2 Euro coin in the center of the target. The rest of the target is spotless. With the .45mm Sig Sauer 220 Aramis puts all of his shots into a 5cm wide spot in the center of the target’s forehead.

By this time, he could actually just stop. He’s made his point, and no one doubts his skill. In point of fact, there are shocked faces in the building security room, and Porthos’ trousers are feeling uncomfortably tight. Still, he’s here for a reason. Aramis runs the target all the way out to the end of the range for his next weapon. It only goes out to 400 meters and Aramis knows he can make a shot at twice that, but he’s sure this will be enough. The SAKO .308 isn’t his favorite rifle, but it’s one he’s more than familiar with. 

He puts two shots directly through the center of the target’s throat, runs the target back in and steps back, setting the rifle back down on the shelf in front of him and taking off his ear protection. Athos’ voice is mildly amused. “I almost expected you to give us a nice floral pattern with the rifle." 

Aramis grins, one side of his mouth lifting. “I can, if you’d like." 

“No,” Athos says. “I think we’ve seen what we needed to see.”  He smiles at Aramis, nods at Souza, and walks out. 

Souza holds the door open for Aramis, “Come with me, I have some paperwork for you to fill out, assuming you’re still interested.” 

Once they’re back above ground and Aramis has signal on his mobile, he texts Porthos. _I have a job!!_  

Porthos, shooing everyone out of the building security office and back to their desks, sees the text come in, but it’s a few minutes before he has the privacy to reply. 

_Watched your weapons qualification on the CCTV. Gonna fuck you so hard tonight._

 

Aramis manages to get his erection down before he has to give a urine sample for the obligatory drug test; he then spends two solid hours filling out forms and thanking god that he remembered to bring his discharge paperwork with him. He makes it home long before dark, but he’s so exhausted by the day that he falls face-first into the pillows on the bed. He doesn’t move until he feels Porthos’ mouth press a kiss into the side of his neck. 

He’s come home with congratulatory take-out. Neither of them should have to cook, he says. They sit on the area rug in the bedroom and eat straight out of the containers, stabbing into the cardboard corners with chopsticks, each talking about his day.

“I just. I wish I knew which team they’re going to put you on,” Porthos says. 

Aramis cocks his head, “Is there a particular one I should hope for?”  He’s smiling, but Porthos seems to be missing his point. 

“Depends, I guess." 

“On what?" 

“On where you want to end up.”  Porthos shrugs. 

Aramis puts his food down and takes Porthos’ hands. “You said next time I should ask, not just assume I know what you mean. What’s on your mind?" 

Porthos shifts his weight from one hip to the other and chews on his lower lip, trying to find the words. “I know where I would like you to be placed, but I don’t want to assume that it’s what you want. It’s been ten years since we lived in each other’s pockets day in and day out. A lot has happened in those years and maybe what you want now is-" 

“Porthos, stop. Of _course_ I want to work with you. Aside from everything else, you are my _best friend_. I don’t want to have to come home and tell you all about my day in order for you to laugh or cry about it with me, I want you right next to me while it’s happening. If we need space, we’ll deal with it but… I just want you. I always want you. If this is another way I can be with you, then I want nothing more.”  He squeezes Porthos’ hands before letting them go and picking up his food again. 

Huffing a laugh, Porthos scrubs a hand through his hair and smiles. “It’s a process; it won’t happen right away. You’ll have to put in some time on other teams, a few months at least to work your way up. After that, if the system works the way it should, you’ll end up on my team, and I’ll get to see you all day. I’ll just have to find a way to keep myself from spending all day watching you and imagining what I’m going to do to you once I get you home." 

“Speaking of which,” Aramis picks his way through the container with his chopsticks and looks up at Porthos. “Saw the firearm qualification, did you?" 

Porthos actually growls. When it’s all over, Aramis will bitch for days about the rug burn on both of his shoulders, and the pad Thai stain will never actually completely come out of the rug. But while they’re fucking their cocks against each other, groaning at the friction and biting their orgasms into their kisses, the consequences seem so far away.

 

Aramis’ first day at TS is a week and a half later; Porthos buys him a new tie just for the occasion. They get up early so they can have a quiet breakfast together, and Aramis tries not to show how nervous he is. He’s worried about the team assignments, wanting to do well, wanting to not make Porthos sorry to have recommended him. Porthos slips a hand over his, squeezing it and rubbing his thumb over Aramis’ knuckles. 

“Love you,” Porthos says.

“And I love you,” Aramis says, smiling and then he isn’t worried anymore. Sometimes it really is that simple. Porthos will always love him; everything else is just a bonus.

They walk into the office together, but not holding hands; they’ve decided to keep the relationship quiet until Aramis is situated, and everyone is sure he’s there on his own merits. (They somehow manage to keep it from Athos for almost a week, even with the way Porthos puts his hand on the small of Aramis’ back as he leans in to say something and Aramis leans into Porthos’ space as he laughs.) 

Aramis stops at the front desk and picks up his ID badge and his welcome packet. He’s been through two days of orientation already, so he’s familiar with most of what it says. Porthos clips Aramis’ badge to his lapel and says, “C’mon, I’ll show you your desk." 

He shows Aramis to an open room with three desks and assorted office equipment. There’s an office with a door for the team leader but no sign of the other team members. Porthos pats the top of desk farthest from the door. “This is you." 

Aramis puts his satchel down and grins. “I feel terribly official now.”  When Porthos laughs, Aramis asks, “Which office is your desk in?"

Porthos’ breaks out a smile that’s almost shy and rubs his thumb along his lower lip. “So… yeah.”  He jerks his thumb at the desk just to the left. “That’s me." 

It takes Aramis a second to catch on, but when he does his mouth drops open and his smile is blinding. “I thought— you said I wouldn’t be assigned with you right away. You said…” 

Porthos shrugs and returns the smile. “I forgot to factor in Athos." 

As if he’s been waiting for his name, the door to the private office opens, and Athos pokes his head out, giving Aramis a brief but warm smile. “Ah, good, you’re both here. Come in so we can talk about this week’s schedule.”  

 

The first week is a blur. There are seemingly endless reams of information about threats and procedures and risks that he has to learn to handle in an entirely new way. In his eight years of armed service Aramis never had to worry about being unobtrusive. He’s either had to be intimidatingly present or completely invisible, this middle ground presents him with unexpected challenges. On top of all that, there are the dirty looks in the office from those who think they should have gotten his spot, those who liked the guy who had it before Aramis got there. 

That entire week is filled with enough change and settling in that Aramis almost doesn’t catch the moment Athos discovers Porthos no longer lives alone in his little one-bedroom flat, that Aramis and Porthos are not only sleeping together, they are desperately in love. 

It’s the end of Aramis’ first week, and the three of them have gone out for drinks after their shift. Three rounds in it’s Aramis’ turn, he stands up and asks for orders. His hand is on the back of Porthos’ chair, but that’s innocent enough. 

It’s not even particularly suspicious when Porthos looks up and smiles, saying, "Get me that shot I like,” but then as Aramis grins and nods he slips his hand up to grip the back of Porthos’ neck, squeezing gently. Athos’ eyes go just the slightest bit wider, but by the time Aramis’ gaze shifts to him he’s managed to compose himself. 

(Well, he’s composed himself on the outside, at least. Inside, Athos is still thinking, _They look at each other the way my parents looked at each other_. He takes the second he should be deciding on his drink order to assimilate this new information instead. He ends up agreeing to whatever drink Aramis wants to get him after Porthos says, “Trust him; he was a bartender for years.”  The shot involves blue curacao and _fire_.) 

Athos comes away from the evening extremely hung-over, slightly singed, and with the imprint of the piping on Porthos’ sofa pillows deeply etched on his cheek. He’s just cracked one eye open when he sees Porthos and Aramis passing each other in the kitchen. Porthos is still shuffling along in his pajama bottoms, making his way to the coffee maker; Aramis is fresh from the shower, towel slung around hips, and heading back to the bedroom to get dressed. They share a quick, sleepy kiss, and just as Aramis turns to walk out of the kitchen he catches Athos’ eye in a silent dare. Athos doesn’t say a word. 

 

Gradually the days and weeks become easier, and after the first month or so Aramis finds that he’s actually settled and comfortable. Athos is the best leader he’s ever served under (and it does feel like service, for all that it’s civilian life). Nothing is overlooked; nothing is inconsequential until it’s been discussed, and he trusts his team to play to their strengths and think for themselves. Aramis somehow survives his first trip out of the country with the rest of the team, and on the way back he finds himself watching the countryside whizzing past the window and being well and truly satisfied with his life.

He would be lying if he said that feeling was due only to job satisfaction and the lack of explosions, because through it all there is Porthos. In the mornings, Aramis usually wakes first, and when he does, Porthos is the first thing he sees. It’s either the sweep of Porthos’ lashes against his cheeks if they’re facing each other or the skin of Porthos’ shoulder if Aramis is spooned up behind him. Some days they wake early enough for lazy morning sex; other days there are quick, sloppy handjobs in the shower. Still other days they just smile and kiss each other and know that they don’t have to jam all the sex they can into a small window; they can savor a day of light touches and sly looks and let the tension build until they are home again and rutting against each other with the door barely closed behind them. 

If you’d asked him, Aramis might have expected to be a little bored with civilian work and a settled life, but five months in he’s still perfectly content. He’s happy. He has Porthos’ feet under his legs while they sit on the sofa to watch movies; he has days with just enough excitement to keep him on his toes. He has a life, the life he always dreamed of, but never thought could be his. There are still moments, even now, when he just stops, and a smile takes over his entire face. More than once Porthos has seen it and given him that same smile in return before saying, “Yeah, I know."

 

At the beginning of December, they meet to talk about the high-level schedule for the month. Aramis blinks at the calendar, checks again, and yes the schedule says they have ten days off at the end of the month. They’re not due back until the 29th. He flicks his eyes up to Athos who tells him that it’s standard for the team. They’ll be working the lavish New Year’s party, and it will be a security nightmare, the leave is almost an apology in advance. 

“What will we do with ten days off?” Aramis asks later that night, giving Porthos a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. 

Porthos laughs. “Actually, I thought we might go visit your mum and dad if you’re okay with that?" 

This. _This_ is why he loves this man so much. Aramis takes Porthos’ face in his hands. "I will book the tickets in the morning, right now I’m going to take you to bed and fuck you. I love you." 

Aramis’ parents are ecstatic at the idea of a visit. They want to show Aramis and Porthos around San Isidro, to show them the city that is now their home. Their house is the perfect size for Mathieu and Carolina, but not for guests of more than a night or two, so Aramis books them a hotel. When his mother apologizes for the ninth time Aramis says, “Mama, if you don’t stop saying you’re sorry I’m going to tell you all of the reasons Porthos and I would enjoy having our own hotel room." 

She huffs quietly and says something about there not being anything new under the sun and who does he think he’s trying to scandalize. Aramis blushes furiously and regrets ever saying anything. 

The lead-up to the holiday is hectic and stressful, and by the time they get on a plane all Aramis wants to do is sleep for a year. Porthos clearly shares the sentiment because before the landing gear is raised, they are asleep against each other. 

It’s not the worst flight they’ll ever take, it doesn’t hold a candle to some of the trips to Australia, but it’s the first trip they’ve taken together and just the length of it is stressful. Porthos has never been so happy to be in love with his best friend because they arrive in Buenos Aires without once trying to kill each other. 

The hugs they get from Carolina make the entire trip worth it, every mile, every minute in a security checkpoint line, even the airline meals. On the ride home from the airport, she chatters happily about the neighborhoods they’re passing through and points out random landmarks; Aramis and Porthos just hold hands in the back seat and soak in the feeling of family. 

It’s barely noon, but they’re both exhausted, so she sends them straight to the bedroom to sleep. She all but tucks them in despite their token protests, and almost before she can shut the door both of them are sound asleep. What eventually wakes them four hours later is the smell of cooking beef and the insistent demands of their stomachs. 

Carolina has made dinner, and it’s everything she always wished she could make for the boys in Paris. There are piles of meat and gorgeous vegetables, and she made _chimichurri_ sauce two days ahead of time, so the flavors are perfect. The neighbors and their friends from church come by and introduce themselves, and this time Porthos and Aramis are prepared for “This is my son and his boyfriend, my other son,” and do not have to excuse themselves until they stop sniffling. They don’t even get choked up. Much. 

After dinner, after bold wine and hot steaks and the joyful sounds of family, Mathieu drives them to their hotel. It’s in Puerto Madero, a splurge for them and Aramis is looking forward to their stay. Mathieu will be back for them the next afternoon, he says. Aramis is going to evening services with his mother and Porthos has promised to keep Mathieu company while they’re gone. Aramis and Porthos sleep until almost noon and wake up feeling human for the first time in almost a week. 

When they’ve finished with lunch, they go out to visit the area around the hotel and wander down to the water. Aramis drapes his arms over the railing along the bridge and looks out over the buildings, the sun, the people walking by. He turns to look at Porthos next to him, and there’s… something in his face. Porthos doesn’t know what it is, but he wants it captured forever. 

“Hold still.”  Porthos fishes his camera out of his pocket. Aramis turns and looks at him; he’s leaning on one elbow, almost bending forward and the effect is that he looks as though he’s staring straight through the camera into Porthos’ eyes. His hair has grown longer in the last five months, it’s long enough to be messy on top, and while he’s not at a full beard stage yet, he’s deliciously scruffy. _Perfect. He’s perfect_ , Porthos thinks. He snaps a picture and goes back over to stand at the railing next to Aramis. 

“Look at your face,” Porthos says. “I thought I knew all your looks, but I’ve never seen that one. What’s that look?" 

Aramis smiles. “I was looking at you behind the camera and thinking ‘How did I get so fucking lucky?’” 

Porthos grins. “Why’ve I never seen that face before?” he teases. 

“Because for years I only made it while you weren’t watching.” Aramis rests one hand on Porthos’ waist, unable to resist touching him, just because he can. "Since I moved back to Paris I make it every morning when I wake up, so you should get used to seeing it." 

“We’re both lucky, then,” Porthos says as he bends to kiss him. Aramis holds Porthos’ face in his hands and makes sure everything in his kiss says _so fucking lucky_. 

 

They fall into a rhythm for the rest of the trip; mornings alone, afternoons and evenings with family, and after dinner Porthos and Aramis take the car back to the hotel and have their nights together. Near the end of the first week, Porthos reminds Aramis that they did, in fact, bring clothes suitable for going out in and what’s the point of being close to posh nightclubs if they don’t make the most of them. So, that night, suitably dressed and groomed, and with the recommendation of the concierge, they head out to a club that has music pouring out of it that makes _both_ of them want to dance. 

At several points over the next hour Porthos stops just to look at Aramis. His hair is slicked away from his face, and his shirt is plastered to his back and chest with sweat and there is the promise of sin in the way his hips move. There is nothing about him Porthos doesn’t want to devour. He’s not alone in that. 

Across the club, there is a strikingly beautiful man who hasn’t stopped watching them since they first took to the dance floor. He has messy brown hair and sleepy eyes and the trace of stubble he’s sporting only serves to highlight the angles of his jaw. He’s in a simple cotton tank top and a pair of low-slung jeans, and he would be wildly in violation of the “club attire” dress code if it weren’t for the fact that it’s actually painful how beautiful he looks in them. 

Porthos catches the man’s eye and smiles at him. The stranger smiles back and that’s when Porthos is done for, because this man's smile isn’t sly or seductive, it’s warm and friendly and open. Leaning down to put his mouth to Aramis’ ear Porthos says, “Hey gorgeous, you have an admirer.”  When Aramis looks a question at him, Porthos flicks his gaze to the man across the club. 

He can’t see what’s in Aramis’ eyes, will never know what the look was, but it’s strong enough to pull this stranger away from the wall and have him putting his drink on a table before joining them on the floor. Aramis flicks a look back at Porthos, there’s something in his eyes that isn’t 100% sure about this, but Porthos smiles, reassuring and warm, and leans into Aramis’ body, pressing him against this new dance partner. 

After half an hour, Porthos gives the “be right back” sign and heads to the bar for water. With the trance of the music temporarily broken, the man leans forward and says, loud enough for Aramis to hear over the music, “Oscar.”  Aramis introduces himself and says Porthos’ name while pointing towards the bar. Oscar smiles that open, friendly smile again and asks if Aramis speaks Spanish. He does, he says, but Porthos doesn’t. Oscar doesn’t speak French, but they all speak English well enough that can be their lingua franca for the night. 

They dance for long enough that Aramis gets used to the feeling of Oscar’s hands on his hips, of Porthos’ hands covering them. He comes to revel in the heat from both men making him sweat. When Oscar excuses himself for a bathroom break Porthos grips Aramis by the hips and spins him until they are eye-to-eye. “You’re having fun,” he says into Aramis’ ear. Aramis’ eyes are fever bright with the music and the company and the drugging energy of the night.

He nods and says, “I am."

Porthos jerks his head in the direction Oscar went. “He’s a pretty one." 

Aramis nods again and makes a lewd gesture indicating exactly how he feels about Oscar’s jeans and the ass inside them. 

Porthos licks his bottom lip, chews at it for a second while he looks straight into Aramis’ eyes and cocks one eyebrow. “I’m thinkin’ I have an idea."

Aramis looks slightly wary. “I’m always nervous when you get ideas, my love." 

“I’m thinking those jeans would look particularly nice on the floor next to our bed." 

Aramis puts his hands on Porthos’ shoulders and leans in to kiss him. “Why would I need him when I have you in the bed with me already?" 

“You don’t _need_ anything,” Porthos says. “I’m talking about want.”

Porthos tugs Aramis to the edge of the dance floor where it’s a little quieter, and they can talk without shouting. “I notice things, Aramis, even if you don’t. You’ve been in Paris for six months and even though you’re happy, and I _know_ you’re happy, you’ve turned down every invitation for a date you’ve gotten since you moved back. You’re not seeing anyone else. Hell, you’re not even flirting back with that girl at the café when she hands you your coffee.”  He grips Aramis’ waist and squeezes a little. “Thing is, you’re not missing it yet, but you will be soon."

“I—" 

“I know, Aramis. You’re going to say that I’m there, and I’m going to tell you _again_ that it’s not one or the other, that’s not the relationship we’re having. I was serious; my heart is happiest when yours is, and your heart is happiest when you’re spreading love around.”   

Porthos bends to press a kiss to Aramis’ forehead. “You heard me when I said I know how your heart works, and I love you for it, not in spite of it, but I’m not sure you believed me. I get the feeling you feel like you’re being disloyal if you date or fuck or fall in love now that we live together, now that we’re thinking the same way about our future.”  He looks Aramis in the eye. “Go ahead, tell me I’m wrong." 

He’s not wrong, and if Porthos didn’t know already, it would be obvious from the look on Aramis’ face. Porthos leans into his ear again. “I love you. I want to invite that fucking gorgeous man back to our hotel and spend the rest of the night making an incredibly sweaty mess of the bed.” 

Porthos presses a kiss to the spot below Aramis’ ear that always makes him shiver. "I don’t want that because I’m trying to prove to you that I’m not going to be jealous or angry. Yeah, you’ll be able to see all those things, but that's just a bonus.” The next words are pitched so low that Aramis can feel them rumble in Porthos’ chest. "I want to do it because I love watching you when you’re getting fucked, and if he does it, I get to really enjoy the view." 

He can feel Aramis’ knees give just a little so Porthos grips him by the shoulders and bites at his neck. Oscar comes up behind Aramis while Porthos is licking at the bite mark and grins at them both. Porthos says, only for Aramis’ ears, “I’m going to the bathroom and I’ll be back in five minutes, if you don’t want this because you don’t want him or don’t want it tonight, that’s one thing, but if you want this like I do, your job while I’m gone is to deliver the invitation.”  Another bite, another lick, and Porthos is gone. 

In the bathroom, Porthos is zipping up his jeans and going to wash his hands when his mobile buzzes.

_We’ll meet you out front._

 

Porthos finds Oscar and Aramis standing just outside the entrance to the club. He puts a hand on each man’s shoulder and says, “Are we going?"

“We are,” Aramis says, and there’s no trace of concern left, they’ve hit the magic moment, Aramis is all in. 

The conversation on the brief trip back to the hotel is amiable and easy, but it sputters out as soon as they get into the lift. Porthos catches Aramis’ eye and glances first to Oscar, then back to Aramis. He gives Aramis a wicked grin. Aramis grins back and leans into Oscar’s space, giving him just enough time to back away if he wants to before kissing him. 

Porthos is watching them, watching the heat build between them, and he can feel the sweat break out on the back of his neck. Aramis has his hand tucked into Oscar’s hair; fingers splayed, just feeling the texture of it against his skin. Oscar grabs at Aramis’ shirt, trying to fist his hands into it only to find that it’s too tight, too fused to Aramis’ chest with sweat. Instead, he grabs at Aramis’ flesh, gripping his shoulders, circling his biceps and stroking his thumbs over the skin. 

Aramis moans into the kiss and Porthos thinks this is the best idea he’s had in years. Too soon, they reach their floor, and Porthos has to drag Aramis out of the lift and propel him down the hallway with a hand on the small of his back. It’s Aramis who reaches the door first, digging in his pocket for the keycard and cursing as he fiddles with the handle. Porthos takes that second to smile at Oscar, to brush his own kiss over Oscar’s amazing mouth.

Oscar lets out a breathy little sigh as he slips his arms around Porthos’ waist, curling them up his back to press at his shoulder blades, pulling Porthos to his body, pressing their chests together. Porthos has a desperate grip on Oscar’s jeans on either side of his waist, hauling him up and in at once. He licks at Oscar’s mouth, tasting the drinks he’s had tonight on his lips. 

There’s a beep as the door lock disengages and a click as Aramis pulls at the handle. He turns back to Porthos and Oscar. “Okay, were we— fuck.”  Aramis goes uncharacteristically silent as he watches them kiss. It’s been ten years since Aramis watched Porthos kiss someone without a jolt of guilt in his belly; he’s completely forgotten how beautiful it is. 

When Aramis kisses, his face goes slack, when Porthos kisses his face is almost as expressive as when he’s talking. His eyebrows furrowed, his jaw angled forward, and the expression is a perfect illustration of the _intent_ with which Porthos approaches not just a first kiss, but all the kisses after as well. He’s mapping his partner’s mouth, memorizing all the ways to make them sigh and moan, showing them exactly how precious he thinks this gift is. Kissing Porthos is like being in a museum case. You are being inspected, admired, learned. You are being seen as perfect and revered for what you are. Aramis sees Oscar’s expression of helpless surprise and knows exactly how he feels.

This time it’s Aramis’ turn to force Porthos through a door, shoving at his back. “In, now. I’ve no desire to end this night explaining our behavior to hotel security.”  He flicks on the hall light as they enter, and the small desk lamp as he passes it. There’s enough light to see, to admire and explore, but not the kind of surgical brightness he knows would ruin the mood.

Oscar hooks a hand around Aramis’ neck again, pulling him in and kissing him breathless. Porthos moves behind Aramis, wrapping his arms around so he can slide his hands up under Aramis’ shirt. He drags his fingernails over Aramis’ skin and says, “Let me tell you how this is going to go." 

Those words. _Those words._ Porthos takes such good care of him, always makes sure of his pleasure, that he’s loved and safe. The moment when Porthos makes it clear that he’s running the show is always a moment when Aramis knows how fucking good it’s going to be. Aramis only needs to do exactly what Porthos says, and the feeling of stepping back into that role makes Aramis’ blood run hotter. 

Porthos kisses the nape of Aramis’ neck as Aramis is moaning into Oscar’s mouth. “I know we have a little bit of a language barrier, and I want to make damn sure nothing gets lost in translation, that everyone gets just what they want. Now you and I always know, don’t we?  But Oscar here, he doesn’t know, and I can’t really tell him because I don’t speak Spanish. Oh sure, we could work in English but it’s not the best for everyone when we really need to get the specifics across." 

Oscar starts tracing his fingers up Aramis skin where it’s been exposed, where Porthos has rucked Aramis’ shirt up and left his hot skin to cool in the air of the room. Porthos says, “I think, just to make sure he knows what you like, _exactly_ what you like, I’m going to have you first. You’re going to tell him everything I say to, and after that it’s his turn." 

Aramis gasps a sob into Oscar’s mouth and digs his fingers into Oscar’s shoulders. He tears his mouth away and says, “Please. Porthos, please." 

Porthos grins, “Tell him."

The words are in Spanish, but the meaning would be clear to Porthos even if it weren’t his own sentiment. Oscar’s eyes go wide, and he nods, palming his own cock through his jeans and licking out to wet his bottom lip. 

Between the three of them, they kiss and grope and sigh their way to nakedness. Porthos pushes Aramis backward onto the bed, laughing. He stretches out along Aramis’ side, stroking a palm down the length of Aramis’ torso and kissing him fondly. Porthos expects Oscar to settle on the other side of Aramis but instead he drags over the armchair from the desk. Pushing it to the side of the bed Oscar settles himself in it, one leg draped over the chair’s arm and one hand stroking lazily over his own balls, palming and rolling them as he smiles at Porthos. 

_Oh yes,_ Porthos thinks, _this was a fantastic idea._  

Porthos digs the lube from where it had been shoved under a pillow that afternoon but leaves it capped for the moment. He kisses Aramis’ face, his eyebrows and cheeks, the curve of his chin and the hairs that are closer to beard than stubble these days. “You’re beautiful like this, the center of attention. I love you.”  Before Aramis can return the sentiment Porthos dips his head and nips at the skin just above Aramis’ nipple and Aramis yelps. “Now, for this bit my mouth is going to be busy, so I want you to tell Oscar when you’re enjoying something. Tell him why you like it." 

He moves to kneel between Aramis’ legs, bending to kiss the skin of his inner thigh and stroking his hands down Aramis’ chest. Aramis arches his back and moans softly but doesn’t say a word. Porthos pinches lightly at Aramis’ skin as he licks over the crease where Aramis’ thigh meets his groin. He’s supposed to be talking, the pinch reminds him. 

Stammering, even in a language he’s spoken since birth, Aramis says, “Porthos knows how much I like to let things build, no matter how I ask, beg even, he knows how much I like to feel his mouth and hands on me. Right now, all I want is for him to put those big fingers of his inside me so he can fuck me sooner, but he’s making me wait.”  He grits his teeth and arches his back further as Porthos buries his nose in the skin of Aramis’ groin. “He’s fucking killing me."

Porthos doesn’t know exactly what Aramis has just said, but he knows that tone. He laughs and noses harder at the warm skin. He can’t help it; he _loves_ the way Aramis smells here. Even after a few hours of dancing it’s still irresistible. Aramis’ hair is trimmed close here, letting Porthos lick at the skin as his fingernails drag over Aramis’ hips. His fingers stop for a second, curling and digging in just to hear Aramis hiss. 

“Fuck!  He knows that I…” Aramis turns his face into the pillow until the flush recedes a bit. “He knows that I like a little pain, so he digs his fingernails in. It feels so good, especially if he does it at the same time he’s licking me or—” He cuts off abruptly as Porthos lifts his head and licks at the tip of Aramis’ cock. Aramis’ words dissolve into a high-pitched little noise of pleasure.

Moving lower, Porthos gets a hand behind each of Aramis’ thighs and spreads him wide, pushing his knees up into his chest. Aramis knows he should be ashamed of being exposed like this in front of a virtual stranger, of feeling so open and undignified, but he knows what’s coming so he just moans and says, “Oh, fuck yes. He knows how much I love this." 

Oh yes, he does. Porthos knows that Aramis adores being rimmed and doesn’t get it nearly as often as he wants. From the look on his face, Oscar loves it, too. His eyes are wide, and his cock is red and throbbing. Oscar is tracing his hands up his own chest, flicking at his nipples and then running his palms over his thighs. He seems to like his pleasure as drawn out as Aramis does, and Porthos knows they’re going to be stunning together. 

Lowering his head, Porthos licks lightly at Aramis’ hole. Aramis gasps and cries out. “He always licks me so softly the first time. He knows that even if I’m expecting it, that first touch of his tongue is a little surprise. But oh, fuck, yes. After that, he knows I hate for him to hold back." 

Porthos is lavishing filthy open-mouthed kisses over Aramis’ entrance now. Licking and sucking at it, dragging his thumbs against the skin to pull him further open. He swipes his tongue up to lick at Aramis’ balls and then back down again. 

“Fuck!  I never get used to this, Oscar. I never get used to how good he makes me feel. I’ve been fucking this man for half my life, and I never get used to how well he knows my body. He plays me so well and makes me feel so good. How does he always know what I want?  God, fuck, yes.” 

Porthos has circled his fingers around the base of Aramis’ cock, and he’s squeezing it while he licks and sucks and flicks his tongue into the tight ring of muscle at the center of Aramis’ ass. Aramis is squirming under the touch, writhing and grabbing at the sheets. Porthos pulls back, wiping his mouth with the sheets and letting Aramis calm down for a moment. He takes the opportunity to flick open the lid on the lube and pours a bit over his fingers. When he thinks Aramis is ready again, Porthos slides those wet, slick fingers over Aramis’ hole as he kisses the skin behind Aramis’ balls.

Aramis sobs out a whine. “I love his fingers so much; they’re so big, and his skin is always so warm. He knows I’m still loose from having him fuck me so well this morning, but he always takes such good care of me.”  Porthos pushes his fingers in gently, and Aramis rolls his head back and forth on the pillow, almost thrashing. “He’s.. god, you’d think he was stretching me so I’m not sore tomorrow, but he knows how much I love being a little sore, love feeling it and remembering how good he felt inside me. So right now he’s not doing it just to stretch me, he’s,” another gasp, “he’s fucking teasing me."

Oscar smiles from the chair, one hand dragging up and down the underside of his cock, curling it into his belly. “Yes, he is a monster, clearly. You must hate it. I’m sure you beg him to stop." 

Aramis laughs and translates for Porthos. Porthos presses his smile into the skin of Aramis’ thigh and chuckles. “Lord, what have I done that you only bring me brats to fuck?”  With that, he strokes his fingers out and then back in again, enjoying the heaving, crying breaths from Aramis. 

For a few minutes there’s nothing out of Aramis, just the keening reaction he has every time Porthos twists his fingers. It’s Oscar who prompts him out of it. He reaches his toes out and nudges at Aramis’ elbow. “Tell me what has you so speechless, I want to know so I can do the same." 

Aramis whimpers. “He knows how much I love the feeling of his knuckles as he twists his fingers, how much I love the way they tug at my fucking hole when he pulls out. And fffffuck, he’s twisting his fingers on the way in and spreading them on the way out now and I swear to Christ, Porthos, I’m going to come of you don’t stop that."

Oscar turns and sees that Porthos has his mouth around the head of Aramis’ cock, and it looks as though his fingers are still but curled, pressing inside of Aramis. 

“When he does that,” Aramis’ eyes are slammed shut and the heels of his palms are pressed to his forehead. “When he does that with his fingers I can see sparks behind my eyes.”  With one hand Aramis is swatting at Porthos’ hair, gripping it and tugging, but Porthos still has his fingers circled tightly around the base of Aramis’ cock. Aramis is worried about coming too soon, but Porthos is making sure that doesn’t happen. 

Finally, when Aramis’ words fail him and he’s reduced to just thrashing and arching against the bed, digging in his heels and fucking his hips up as much as Porthos’ hand will let him, Porthos pulls off of his cock with an obscene pop. He pulls his fingers from Aramis’ asshole and puts one last sloppy kiss against it. Kissing Aramis just below his navel, wiping his mouth against Aramis’ skin, Porthos asks, “Are you ready for me?" 

“Always,” Aramis sobs. “Always.”  He’s lost, still speaking in Spanish, but Porthos understands. With his hand around his own cock, Porthos pushes against Aramis’ hole. The head of his cock is blunt and wide, and Aramis feels the fucking glorious burn of it. Aramis clutches at Porthos’ hips, stopping him.

“Too much?” Oscar asks.

“No,” Aramis says. “God no, never, just the opposite. Feels so fucking good right there, just that first push; I always make him stop so I can enjoy it as long as it lasts. He knows how much I love being fucked. I love fucking, too. Love the feeling of tight, warm, slick ass around me, or a beautiful wet cunt, maybe having a fat cock in my mouth. But there is nothing I love as much as I love being fucked.”  His fingernails dig into Porthos’ hips as Aramis moans. 

Oscar grunts, wrapping a hand around his cock and bucking up into his fist. Aramis rolls his head against the pillow and meets Oscar’s eyes. He blinks, slow and lazy. Oscar smiles at him, stroking his hand over his length and imagining what Aramis will feel like around him, what he will do to make Aramis look like that. 

When Aramis rolls his hips up, that’s all the sign Porthos needs to see. For the next few minutes, as Porthos eases into it slowly, enjoying the endless drag of his cock in and out, Aramis describes how it feels. He tells Oscar about how hot Porthos’ cock always feels, how thick it is. How much he loves the feeling of Porthos’ huge hands on his hips. “He could break me with those hands,” Aramis says, “but he never would. My love is so strong and so gentle." 

Porthos quickens his pace and Aramis spews a litany of curses and praise. He tells Oscar how much he loves feeling Porthos’ hips slap into his, the echo of skin hitting skin. He says he loves the moment when Porthos reaches down and cups his ass, pulling him up and in, wrapping Aramis legs around his own waist. It’s a sure sign that Porthos wants him closer, wants to be able to bury himself inside Aramis as far as he can be. Sometimes, he tells Oscar, Porthos will arch himself over Aramis, bending him almost in half because he’s unable to go a second longer without a kiss.

Oscar is stroking his own cock still, the hand circled around it shuttling up and down. “Do you think he will do that now?"

“No,” Aramis says. “No, this time he wants you to see how hard I am, how much I love when he takes me like this. If he were bent over me, you wouldn’t be able to see my cock. You wouldn’t be able to see how good it is for me to have him ride me like this."

Porthos mumbles something and Aramis’ hands come up, pinching and twisting at his own nipples, gasping into the sensation. “Mmm, he says he loves how my face looks when it hurts a little. He doesn’t know that my face can only show a small part of how good it feels inside.”  Aramis smiles up at Porthos, heavy-lidded and quiet, his fingers still on his own chest, he twists his nipples again, almost viciously. He groans and gasps and arches all at once; the pain mixing with the gorgeous drag of Porthos’ cock into him and pulling his back off the bed for a moment.

The play of those things all at once on Aramis’ face is enough to drive Porthos over the edge. He grips Aramis’ hips tight and slams into him four times in rapid succession; his back bows on the fourth and his head falls back as he cries out. There’s one last tight, tense thrust while Porthos is coming, spilling himself inside his love.

When he’s spent, Porthos pulls his cock out and bends, arching over Aramis’ body to draw his mouth into a soft kiss. Aramis squirms, trying to get more friction between his cock and Porthos’ belly. Porthos only laughs, gripping Aramis’ hips still and holding them to the bed. “Save it for Oscar,” he says, and hearing his own name, Oscar smiles.

“Should I?” Oscar says, in English. 

Porthos smiles. “Of course.”  He kisses Aramis again, reaching into the bedside table for a condom and passing it to Oscar as they switch places. Oscar grips Porthos’ forearm, tugging until Porthos leans in and they are close enough to kiss. Porthos loves kissing; it shows in the way he melts into Oscar’s space and licks his way into Oscar’s mouth. Aramis smiles and sighs happily. He rolls onto his side and watches them. 

Smiling, Porthos turns to Aramis and grins. Aramis’ cock is a livid red, hard and weeping and Porthos can see his fingers twitch with the ache to touch it. “Are we ignoring you?” Porthos asks. 

“No. You are entertaining me,” Aramis says. Porthos has switched to English, apparently Aramis’ role as pornographic interpreter is over for the evening. While he’s aware that the need to translate everything they’re thinking into English before they say it will take away some of the fluid nature of the earlier parts of the night, he loves that they’ll all be in it together now. 

Breaking the kiss, Oscar knee walks his way across the bed to Aramis’ side. “Yes, like that, but more on your front,” he says and pushes at Aramis’ shoulder until Aramis is face-down on the bed. Together they tuck a pillow under Aramis’ hips so that his ass is raised. Oscar palms the cheeks, gripping and squeezing. Porthos can’t blame him; Aramis’ ass is a sin.

“So nice of your Porthos to make you ready for me,” Oscar says. 

Aramis’ English is better than anyone else’s in the room; he spent years with Rogers and demanded to be taught more than just curses and the right words to pick up prostitutes. Ironically, it’s the curses and sex words that are coming in most handy now, though even those are escaping him as he finds himself reaching for the simplest of words. “He does like to be… thorough." 

Oscar’s hands pull at him, thumbs tugging at his hole to see how open he still is. Aramis whines under his touch, that friction he’d been dying for just minutes earlier is there now, and Aramis’ cock is almost in pain at the stimulation. He needs something to distract him from the drag of the fabric across his skin. “Please,” he begs. “Please, please, please” again and again. 

“Porthos,” Oscar says. “Your Aramis begs so well.”  He strokes his own cock, watching as his thumb slips in and out of Aramis, spreading Porthos’ come around Aramis’ hole. “Has he begged enough?"

“Sometimes,” Porthos says, “I will keep him to beg for hours. He will be close, and I’ll make him stay there. You agree he’s beautiful like this.”  Oscar nods and smiles. “Tonight, though, it’s enough.” 

Oscar isn’t even pushing into him yet, but Aramis groans to hear Porthos give permission. The idea of the other two orchestrating the movements, letting him feel like almost like a decadent toy, has him gritting his teeth and struggling to keep his hips still.

Finally, fucking finally, he can hear Oscar tear the condom open and roll it onto himself. Aramis spreads his knees wider, leaving himself open and on display. The trace of shame he still has about being this wanton makes his face hot and his cock throb. 

When Oscar’s erection finally pushes into Aramis, he lets out a heavy grunt. Oscar isn’t nearly as thick as Porthos, but Aramis is starting to get tender and sensitive and Oscar feels enormous. Aramis hisses in pleasure and Oscar asks Porthos if that’s a good noise. 

From his spot on the desk chair, Porthos talks to Oscar about the noises Aramis makes, how he hisses like that for pleasure but if he clenches his thighs at the same time that’s pain. He says that Aramis moans when something feels good, but if he moans with a whine at the end, it means it feels so good he can’t stop himself from making noises he thinks are unsexy. The result is that those sounds are the sexiest to Porthos. 

Gripping Aramis’ hips for leverage, Oscar pushes into Aramis again, a little more force this time, and before Aramis can stop himself, almost without knowing it, he lets out that telltale moan and whine. Oscar chuckles low, “Oh yes, very sexy.”  Oscar’s heavy Argentine accent has him rolling his r’s so hard Aramis can feel it like a purr. 

The sheets fisted in his hands, his eyes squeezed tight, Aramis’ breath is coming hot and fast. To know that Porthos is watching this, is watching him, and to know that there is so much love in his eyes and his face, it’s almost more than Aramis can take. Porthos was right, of course, somewhere in his mind Aramis had worried that this was something Porthos could only approve of in the abstract. Every time he considered flirting back or making a move there would be a flash of Porthos’ hurt face in his head.

Now, though, there is nothing but joy and love on Porthos’ face, nothing but want and lust. He isn’t stretched out next to Aramis, holding his hand and making himself a part of the experience. He is content watching Aramis be happy. Just like he said he would be, just as he promised. Aramis lets out a tiny sob and to the other men in the room it sounds like it’s driven by the slap of Oscar’s balls against his own, but Aramis knows that it’s rooted in the knowledge that his Porthos is a miracle. He is, as Aramis has always known, made of magic. 

“I think he is liking you watching,” Oscar says, one hand tracing up the center of Aramis back and tugging at his hair. 

“Oh, I’m sure he is,” Porthos says. “To his parents he is such a good boy, but when he is being fucked, he becomes such a slut with it. He wants to be seen, heard. He wants to be… displayed." 

He’s so right; Aramis knows it. They’re both watching him, and Aramis is preening under their gaze. Oscar’s hips are moving faster now, his English slipping and the occasional Spanish curse slipping out. Aramis is swearing in French, rocking his hips against the pillow, fucking himself against the fabric. Porthos isn’t hard, but he’s rolling his balls in his hand, just enjoying the sensation as it combines with the sight of Aramis falling apart. 

“I know this sound, too,” Porthos says. He describes the hiccupping, breathy whines of Aramis on the edge. “You could hold him in there for hours, right on the edge, but tonight he’s waited so long." 

“We should make him come?” Oscar asks.

Porthos chuckles, “We don’t have to make him, we only have to let him.” 

Aramis moans into the bedding; it’s so true. He could have come just after Oscar started, but the delicious ache of waiting for someone to give him permission is always too tempting. He always wants to wait. Aramis loves the feeling of this extended pleasure, this dancing close to the cliff for so long, but he doesn’t have the patience to exercise that restraint by himself. There’s too much of the hedonist in him, and if left to his own devices, he will always tip over that edge the first or second time he comes close. If he puts it in their hands, if he just decides that it’s Porthos and Oscar’s decision, he gets the pleasure of the denial and the pleasure of letting them guide him. 

Over Aramis’ head, Oscar looks at Porthos, raising his eyebrows in question. Porthos smiles but shakes his head, gesturing back to Oscar. This isn’t Porthos’ show, not since he stepped back. He’s not here to make decisions or participate in any way other than the conversation of feigned disinterest that he knows Aramis loves. Oscar smiles and nods. It’s his show. 

Curling over Aramis’ back, Oscar fists his hand in Aramis' hair, just at the nape of his neck. In Spanish, low and filthy, he says, “Your ass feels so good around me, so tight and hot. If I had a week, I’d never get tired of fucking it. I’d plug you and keep you open so you would be ready for me to fuck whenever I wanted. Right now, I want to feel how tight you can get when you’re coming. Do you want to come, Aramis?" 

Aramis can only whimper and nod his head, his upper teeth buried in his lower lip. 

“Do it then,” Oscar says. “Come around my cock."

Screaming into the pillow, Aramis feels his cock pulsing, feels himself coming against the sheets and the push of Oscar into him with his own release. When Aramis is finished, when he’s feeling himself coming down from the high of his orgasm, Oscar kisses the back of his neck and pinches the condom against himself as he pulls out. 

When Oscar heads to the bathroom, promising to return with a wet face cloth, Porthos leans in and kisses Aramis softly on the mouth. “I love you. Did you have fun?"

Aramis nods, sleepy and fucked-out. “I love you. You were right."

Porthos laughs. “I usually am, but thank you for telling me.”  He tugs Aramis over onto his back and lets the newly returned Oscar wipe the come from Aramis' belly while Porthos strips the case off the pillow. Aramis asks Oscar if he’ll stay, but Oscar pleads an early breakfast with his mother. He says he’ll be late if he sleeps here and then goes home to change, and he refuses to have breakfast with his mother in a sleeveless shirt and jeans. He’s a good boy, after all. 

Aramis’ smile is wicked. “Of course you are." 

Laughing, Porthos says, “What you said to Aramis will probably say you are not. Tell me what it was?"

Oscar shakes his head and points to Aramis, “No. Make him tell you."

Having assumed he was immune to shame at this point, Aramis is surprised to find his face flushed and red. Porthos laughs again and says he’ll be sure to get it out of Aramis somehow. 

Aramis tries to get up to say goodbye when Oscar is finally dressed but Oscar waves him back down. He kisses Aramis and Porthos warmly and thanks them for an amazing evening. He leaves scribbles his mobile number on one of the hotel notepads and leaves it on the table, saying he would love to buy them lunch to say thank you before they leave. He blows a last kiss to them as he’s tugging the door closed behind him. 

Porthos stretches his body along the full length of Aramis’, bracing his elbows on either side of Aramis’ head, framing his face. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” he says, punctuating each sentiment with a kiss. Aramis traces his fingers along the lines of Porthos’ sides, cupping his hands over the curve of Porthos’ ribs and kissing every part of his face he can reach. 

“I love you. I get it now. You were right." 

“You’re fucking glowing, Aramis; I love you like this. I would never want you to go the rest of your life without this look on your face again.”  Porthos noses at the curve of Aramis’ jaw, kissing along the lines of his throat. 

Aramis runs his fingers through Porthos’ curls, feeling them twine around his fingers and sighing into Porthos’ kisses. “I know, and I know that even when it isn’t just a night of good sex, when it’s love and dating, you’ll still want me to be happy." 

“Exactly.”  

Tugging at Porthos’ hair, Aramis brings his head up until they are eye to eye again. “Hey, sometimes it will be just about sex, though.”  Porthos nods, he knows. Aramis continues, “When that happens, can I drag you along from time to time?" 

Porthos buries his head against Aramis’ neck, his rumbling laugh sinking into Aramis’ skin. “If you want, you have only to ask. I might not be up for it, but if I am you can absolutely drag me along.”  He plants a smacking kiss on Aramis’ mouth before rolling off to the side and tucking Aramis into the curve of his body. 

Aramis presses his nose to Porthos’ skin and smiles. As he drifts off to sleep, Porthos’ arms tight around him, he prays to never find the wonder of his life to be ordinary, to never stop being struck by how lucky he is.

 

Christmas is simple and quiet. They go to church together, the four of them, in the morning. In the afternoon Carolina shows Porthos how to make her empanadas, and after lunch they exchange gifts. Nothing can be large, it all has to fit in their luggage for the return trip, but everything is heartfelt and perfect and Porthos thinks again how fucking lucky he is.

Carolina and Mathieu see them off at the airport with hugs and kisses and not a few tears on everyone’s part. She says she doesn’t plan on letting them miss her for long, that she’ll come visit when she can. She pulls Porthos’ face to hers and kisses his cheek. “Take care of my boy,” she says. Porthos smiles and says, “I will,” around a knot in his throat. 

Turning to Aramis, Carolina cups his cheeks in her palms, kissing him just to the right of his mouth. “Take care of my other boy,” she says, and Aramis only nods frantically, tears in his eyes. 

Porthos and Aramis spend the entire flight back to Paris touching. Hands woven together, sleeping on each other, trading quiet kisses. Aramis misses his parents already, but he knows that wherever Porthos goes, Aramis’ family is there.

After the cabin crew comes around and collects the remains of their dinner, Aramis shoves the armrest up out of the way and drags Porthos’ arm up and around his shoulders. He tucks himself into Porthos’ side and sighs, happily. “Do you think she’ll really come to visit?”

Porthos presses a kiss into Aramis’ hair. “I have no doubt.”  He can feel Aramis go a little tense under his arm. “You going to sit there and stew for the next seven hours or are you going to talk to me about it?" 

Aramis laughs and turns to kiss Porthos’ hand where it’s curled over his shoulder. “I was just thinking, I know that we’re fine now but would you, someday, like to think about—" he trails off into an awkward silence. 

“Come on, out with it, love." 

“A flat. Would you like to think about getting a flat together? Maybe with enough space for a guest bed if she really does visit, or if Athos decides he wants to cheat on the sofa and pass out somewhere new and different." 

Porthos is laughing, rubbing his nose into Aramis’ hair. “Would I like to commit myself to you by finding a place to live that we both picked and then living there with you?  I think that’s something I can do. I might even like it." 

“I love you,” Aramis says. 

“I love you too,” Porthos says, ducking his head to kiss Aramis’ mouth. “Go to sleep." 

They don’t wake up until the pilot announces their initial descent into Paris. 

 

Somehow they both survive going back to work, the Bourbon’s New Year’s party and the slow crawl of winter. Aramis is no longer unsure in this new life; he finds he is growing into it, making his mark on it. He brings home gorgeous, old teak jewelry box he finds at a street market. They clean and polish it and set it on Porthos’ desk, where it holds all of Aramis’ fountain pens.  Fatima sends postcards from New York addressed to both of them and they take up a place of pride on the refrigerator door.

At the end of an unexpectedly warm day in early February, they’re walking home from the Métro and lingering at shop windows. Porthos is offering running commentary on the objects on display, but when they come to the small gallery on the corner Porthos stops talking.  Aramis catches up with him and sees what’s caught his eye. It’s a painting, nothing too elaborate or fancy, but the play of light over the landscape is captivating. “I love that,” Porthos says. 

“As do I,” Aramis says. “We should have it.” Porthos protests for a second, but Aramis stops him by pushing the door to the gallery open and walking in. “Excuse me,” he calls to the gallery worker, and Porthos realizes there’s no use arguing anymore. Forty-five minutes later they walk home with the first thing in the flat that belongs to both of them.

In March, they move the bed so that Aramis’ side gets as much light in the morning as Porthos’ side, and Aramis throws away Porthos’ old cookware and buys a new set. Porthos watches him cook with it for the first time, puttering around the kitchen barefoot, his jeans pooling around his ankles. Aramis is singing one of Carolina’s favorite songs and flipping the spatula in his hand, and Porthos’ heart stops. 

This is his life now. His life is dinners with Aramis and a flat that is slowly, but surely becoming their home. His life is working with Athos at a job he enjoys and spending his evenings and weekends volunteering, working to help kids who remind him too much of himself. He remembers looking at that picture of Aramis’ parents and saying he wanted a life like theirs. Porthos had seen that picture and what stared back at him was family. Security and love and home.

Porthos, more than anyone, knows how many different shapes and sizes family can come in, how sometimes you must make a family for yourself, but even he could never have imagined one could make him this happy. He wanted, just like he’d said, to wake up and still be glad about the person he’d picked for forever. Now, whenever he rolls over and sees Aramis asleep next to him he thinks, _Forever_ , and he is so much more than glad. 

He walks up behind Aramis and buries his nose in Aramis’ neck. “I love you,” he says into Aramis’ skin. Aramis turns in his arms and kisses Porthos on the mouth.

“I love you. If you make me burn dinner you have to deal with the face Athos makes when he finds out we’re serving him take-out."

Porthos kisses him again, slanting his mouth over Aramis’ and pulling him closer. Aramis sighs into the kiss and melts against Porthos. After a minute Aramis starts to tug Porthos’ shirt from his jeans, but Porthos pushes him away. Aramis tries to kiss him again as Porthos holds him back, and when Aramis’ expression grows frustrated Porthos brushes a thumb over his cheek. 

“Athos will be here in twenty minutes. Also, I’m going to enjoy watching you sit through dinner now that you’re all worked up."

Aramis huffs an irritated sigh and turns back to the stove. “Then get out of the kitchen and stop making it worse just by being irresistible.”

 

By April, they’ve grown so comfortable they’ve almost forgotten about their plan to look for a new flat. That changes on the first warm day of the spring. Porthos comes into the kitchen to find Aramis standing at the window, nursing his coffee. “What’s caught your eye out there?"

“The sun,” Aramis says. “It’s been raining so much lately, and I’m just soaking it up." 

Porthos pours himself a cup and comes to stand behind Aramis, kissing the side of his neck. “Let’s get out in it, then. Take a walk.”

Aramis turns his head to look at Porthos. “Visit the park?” 

Smiling, Porthos bends and kisses his mouth. “Yeah. Absolutely." 

Between sleepy shower sex and breakfast, it takes them another two hours to get out of the flat and into the sun. By then it’s warm as well as sunny, and Aramis turns his face to the sky and hums happily.

They walk past the puppet theater and hold hands by the temple. Aramis kisses Porthos by the waterfall and Porthos presses Aramis against the tree under which they first kissed and whispers, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” in his ear. It’s so textbook romantic that on their Sunday evening call when Carolina asks how their day was Aramis will actually flush slightly and just say, “It was nice, we went for a walk."

On the way home, they’re walking past a building on a road the borders the park, when a small yellow sign catches Porthos’ eye. He stops, feeling Aramis stop beside him. “What is it?” Aramis asks. 

“For Sale sign for a flat in the building." 

Aramis smiles, “Yeah? Should we call?" 

Porthos pulls his mobile out and dials the number on the sign. The woman on the other end of the line gives them the bare details of the flat, seventh floor, two bedrooms, a price that makes Porthos’ heart skip, and she offers to meet them the next afternoon to show it to them if they’d like. They would like, Porthos says. 

 

Just before sunset the next day they walk into the flat and Aramis stops dead. The agent knows her business, and she’s chosen to withhold the most important information, letting it speak for itself. The flat has windows across most of the wall opposite the front door and where there aren’t windows there is a sliding glass door leading to the wrought iron balcony. The afternoon sun is spilling in through the glass, bathing the entire room in a golden light and making the hardwood floors glow. Once Aramis gets past the light, the incredible way it makes the room look, he sees what’s beyond the windows, and his breath truly stops. 

The flat overlooks the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont and through the balcony doors Aramis can see the waterfall. 

He’s waving his hand frantically behind him, reaching out for Porthos, beckoning him closer. Porthos slips his hand into Aramis’ and squeezes so hard it feels like Aramis’ fingers will crack; Aramis squeezes back just as hard. 

“Shall we look at the rest?” the agent says, and they both agree that yes, they should see the rest of the flat, but in reality the decision is made by then. The bedrooms are good sized, the kitchen is open to rest of the flat, and while the bathtub is small, the bathroom itself is large enough that Porthos is already planning the tub he’ll put in after he rips this one out.

The agent smiles at them, knowing they’re hooked. “So…” she says, and Porthos just nods.

“Yes,” says Aramis. “Yes." 

Between the paperwork and the nature of the property-buying process, it takes them a full month to close the sale of the flat. They celebrate with drinks after work, at which point Athos informs them that he has no intentions of helping them move. That helping your friends move is the kind of thing people only do when they’re fresh out of university and Athos, being Athos, didn’t even do it _then_.

Instead, as a housewarming gift, he says, he pays for a professional service to come in and take their furniture and packed boxes to the new flat. When Porthos tries to protest, Athos fixes him with a look that shuts him up immediately. Aramis just says, “Thank you.”  Athos nods and says that they are more than welcome, that the sooner they get moved in and settled the sooner he can join them for dinner again. 

“That sounds like a wonderful plan,” Aramis says, and proposes a toast to Athos, their benefactor. Athos glares furiously at him, which only makes Aramis laugh harder.

 

The first time they walk into the flat after the paperwork and transfers are completed, Porthos stands in the middle of that gorgeous afternoon light and twirls the keys around his index finger, grinning at Aramis. Aramis grabs him in a hug, and they stand, clinging to each other for a long moment. 

“I love you,” Porthos mutters into Aramis’ collar. 

“I love you more,” Aramis says, pressing a kiss to Porthos’ neck. 

“Mmm,” Porthos hums. “Not a chance.” 

“Prove it,” Aramis says. 

It’s the first time Porthos fucks Aramis bent over the kitchen worktop, but it’s far from the last.

 

The moving-in date is set for a free day on their work calendar, so they can both be there. They start early in the morning and by mid-afternoon the moving is all finished. Aramis had boasted over breakfast of his grand plans to christen the bed once they got it into the flat, but in the end they unpack the very basic necessities, put a blanket on the bed and nap for almost three hours. 

When Aramis wakes up Porthos is already loading books onto shelves in the front room. They work together, talking sometimes but mostly quiet, until well into evening when Porthos insists they stop and eat. After dinner, he says, when he’s fortified with food, they’re going to see about christening that bed. 

Aramis can hardly argue with that. 

The sex is slow and unhurried, born of long years of familiarity with each other’s bodies and the knowledge that they live here now, in each other. Aramis laughs when Porthos scrapes his fingernails down Aramis’ ribs, and Porthos growls low and hungry when Aramis nips at the spot where Porthos’ hip meets his belly. They bring each other off with the friction of their bodies against each other, each of them spilling into the place where their skin meets. They trade lazy kisses until their heartbeats are back to normal. 

Porthos volunteers to get something to clean them with and Aramis is dozing off before Porthos is even back from the bathroom. He wipes at Aramis’ skin, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his chest before tossing the cloth into the hamper on the other side of the room and climbing back into bed. Curling himself around Aramis, his head on Aramis’ chest, Porthos drapes one arm over his hips and wonders again how he got so fucking lucky. 

Looking up at Aramis’ chin Porthos takes note of the silver hairs starting to mix in with the brown. He counts them, one, two. There are six of them. He takes note of how they catch the light, how they’re hiding tucked in among the darker blanket of the rest of Aramis’ beard. _Like stars_ , he thinks, _in the night sky_ , and he remembers evenings on watch in Iraq with d'Anjou, the hobbyist astronomer from somewhere in the Loire who used to point out the constellations to Porthos.

Seeing Aramis’ beard, Porthos remembers the names of the stars. The silver hair to the furthest left he names Sirus, trailing after the others like a dog. The one in the middle is Rigel, brightest star in Orion. The two in identical places on either side of his mouth are Castor and Pollux. He reaches up and gives a little tug to the one just below the curve of Aramis’ lower lip. “I’ll name you in the morning,” Porthos says, and closes his eyes to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the reams of information about joining the Foreign Legion, there is absolutely fuck all about getting out of it. So I grilled my husband about his discharge from the U.S. Army Reserves and used most of that. Also, just once in this entire story did I cop out and just not do the research. When I made up that train from San Sébastian to Marseilles I'd tried to find one before just giving up, but when it came to buying real estate in Paris? I didn't even start. I *did* go on a bunch of sites and find the perfect flat for them, it's exactly as described, but I don't know what it would take to complete the sale on it, I just took what felt universal from the closing on my own house. I beg you to forgive my laziness.
> 
> I didn't want to put this note at the beginning because I didn't want to spoil the moment, but I would be remiss if I didn't lavish heaps of thanks on Gigi for pointing out that Porthos would be just the kind of romantic to stare at Aramis' gray hairs and name them after stars. It hit me like a punch the first time she said it and once I wrote it out there was no other way to finish.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [apparent horizon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2048817) by [ceeturnalia (traveller)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/ceeturnalia)




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